


Endgame

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [7]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, During Canon, F/M, Forgive Me for These Deaths, I'm so sorry, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Rescue Missions, Tension, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-10-18 12:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 52,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17580971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: Season 5: An Underground Undercover/Nuclear Option adaptation.Here we are, at the end of the line. Straights are dire and time is short. Not everyone gets out alive.





	1. Paper Hats

**Author's Note:**

> Theme for Season 5: [Somewhere Over the Rainbow/J2](https://youtu.be/G1wBVbwAxwY/)

DANSE

Sanctuary Hills, MA

August 15th, 2288

Danse awoke to the sound of Deacon shouting outside his window. “Hail, good sirs! What can I do you for?”

He blinked sleep from his eyes. His body felt heavy – one of the aftereffects of waking up too soon with Calmex still in his system. Pale streaks of daylight punctured the rips in the old-world American flag draped across his window. Some time had passed since he tore his Brotherhood banner down and replaced it with a more neutral symbol.

John grumbled under his breath and snaked out of Danse’s arms. Danse tracked him with a languid gaze as the naked ghoul lifted a corner of the flag to peer out the window. The blue of Danse’s old holotags seemed to glow against the tan, puckered flesh of his chest. John dropped the flag and quickly snapped to one side of the windowframe, pressing against the wall. His gold eyes were bright, alert, and very awake. “Shit. Tin patrol.”

Danse jarred into full wakefulness. A Brotherhood patrol was outside of his front door. He rolled out from under the sheets and hit the floor, pulling his laser rifle out from under the bed. As he charged it, John raced to the other side of the room, scrambling over the bed. He pulled on his pants, neglecting to do up the clasp. “Stay here,” he commanded with a determined, ugly look on his face. He pulled Danse’s holotags off and rushed from the room.

Danse, in just his underwear, scooted across the floor until his back touched the wall separating their room from the street. A slight breeze passed though the blown-out window, rippling the flag. Danse’s heart pounded sickeningly and he stilled his breathing to listen.

“We’re looking for the General,” a solider spoke. “Saw the flag in the window and took that as a sign we were close.”

A bead of cold sweat trickled down Danse’s neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He flushed as Deacon spouted, “Well, you found me. Forgot the trademark hat but, yeah, that’s my flag. Reminders of better days and cleaner streets. Look, it’s early,” Deacon griped, close enough to be standing on Danse’s front porch. “You go and wake half the neighborhood and people are gonna be in a bad mood all day, picking fights, nothing gets done, crops wasted, kids are in tears, and that’s just no good.”

“Hey, hey,” came John’s drawling voice. “What the fuck do we have here?”

There was a moment of silence. Danse remembered that John was mostly undressed, surely an unwelcome sight for a cadre of Brotherhood soldiers. Danse wondered who they were, if they had once served under him.

“Oh, hi, honey,” Deacon greeted, cheerful and loud. “Sorry about this. These guys just wanted to have a chat with your beloved General. That okay with you?”

“Get offa my lawn,” John grumbled, his tone dark. Any interaction with – or mention of – the Brotherhood pushed all of John’s buttons.  

“Sorry about that,” Deacon addressed the patrol. “My ghoul lover gets ornery when he misses out on his beauty sleep. We were up late last night. You know how it goes – a little Buffout and you’re good to go for hours.”

Boots shuffled and armor clinked, proof of the soldiers’ unease. “We’ll come back another time,” one of them said, voice distorted beneath a helmet. “And expect a full requisition of supplies.”

“See you around, then,” Deacon said. “Have fun storming the Commonwealth!”

As the patrol clanked down the street, Danse slipped from the room and down the hall, crouching, pressing against walls. He leaned into the main living area and saw the two men on his threshold. Deacon ran his hand over John’s bald head, one arm looped around the ghoul’s bare midsection, looking very much like lovers. Emotion overruled logic, and Danse’s sudden, surprising jealousy tasted rancid. “They’re still watching. Wave,” Deacon instructed in a chipper tone. “And smile.”

John complied, though his body was stiff. “You’re gonna get a grenade in the pants when you least expect it,” he promised.

“Ohhh. Dirty.”

The patrol must have disappeared around the bend at this point, because Deacon slugged John hard in the shoulder. John reeled back. “You owe me. And you’re welcome,” said Deacon.

Deacon must have been spending the night next door at Curie’s – as was common nowadays – to have intercepted a patrol on their way to speak with the General of the Minutemen. Danse had been lucky thusfar, as few knew the title was his. A handful of trusted settlement leaders knew him, but the rest of the Minutemen still believed their administration hadn’t changed. A grizzled woman named Ronnie Shaw was relaying his orders, keeping him largely anonymous while allowing for him to control the militia’s movements from within the safety of Minuteman-controlled settlements. The Brotherhood had never been subtle – their ‘birds and heavily-armored soldiers gave them away far in advance, letting Danse disappear into the wind long before discovery, just another Wasteland traveler walking the trade-routes.  

Danse stood, revealing himself. A shift in the air, his scent, the sound of his breathing – something tipped John off and he turned, spotting him. “You good?” John asked, regarding Danse with a worried expression.

“That was… too close,” Danse said, switching his rifle off. “Resources must be thin for an acquisition team to venture this far west.” This wasn’t the first settlement that a patrol had been sent to. Radio Freedom informed him of plenty of occurrences. Feeding all the troops stationed in Commonwealth was a lofty undertaking, and the Brotherhood’s sense of entitlement led to demands, which led to violence, which led to either annihilation or starvation. It felt as though the world was off-kilter, seeing his old faction as the enemy.  

Deacon coughed. “Speaking of thin – nice undies, General.”

Danse blanched and spun, stalking back towards the bedroom as Deacon chuckled at his back. John appeared a few seconds later and joined him in getting dressed. Basic leathers for John, everyday jeans and flannel for Danse. John produced a tiny blue vial – one of Curie’s preemptive shots – and injected it without fanfare.

Watching him, Danse felt a surge of intense affection, mingled with sympathy and sorrow. Lately, John’s memory had been spotty, losing a word here, a date there. John still had brief feral-slips, usually during some increased emotional state, or after a fight when adrenaline still sang in his veins. If Danse was present, he’d pull John out of public and hold him to his chest, arms wrapped tight, restraining John until he was himself again. The presence of handcuffs in their bedroom was for a less kinky reason then John would have preferred, reserved instead for when John was alone and felt himself start to slide.

Despite the ever-present reminder of John’s decline, they had arrived at an emotional apex, even surpassing the memory of what they’d had before. The previous summer had been gloriously spent, and their relationship couldn’t have been better. Danse loved the predictability of his life with John, the comfort of it, the familiarity. They didn’t kiss in front of people – that still felt vulgar – but they had friends now, people that knew about them and still cared for them both **.** John would talk, tell stories, joke and banter and Danse could just listen and be with him, letting his partner be the extrovert. Danse’s slow pace seemed to work just fine against John’s speed, offering a balance.

John’s chembreaks had become infrequent. Public knowledge of his attempted sobriety kept excess containers out of his hands. He was sharp and wholly present, and that change made Danse swell with pride and respect. As for Danse, he remained very responsible with Calmex, never abusing it, using only scant doses and only on the rarest of occasions, when exhaustion gave way to irritation and madness. After the standard communal breakfast, he stopped by Curie’s clinic stand for a refill.

“Hello, monsieur,” she greeted with a cheerful smile, elbows on the counter, hands folded. “How are you today?” Her humble wooden stall was unassuming, lined up with the other open-air shops in the makeshift marketplace. Marcy Long ran a produce counter, Sturges a junk shop, and Mama Murphy a bar, sitting in an armchair behind the counter, a sign that read ‘ _pour it yourself’_ pasted beside a line of bottles. A caravan tent stood off to one side, currently vacant.

“Fine, um, thank you.” He cleared his throat. One day, small talk would come easy. One day. “I’d, uh… I’d like for you to thank Deacon for his… assistance this morning. He did John and I quite the favor.”

“Did he?” Her eyes shined with approval. “How marvelously chivalrous!”

That wasn’t a word he would normally associate the spy with.

“Any negative developments with your paramour?” she queried. “Fevers? Infection?”

Para-? Oh. John. “No. No, he’s quite healthy. Still taking the injections.” As he understood, ghouls had a higher body temperature than normal humans, and a simple infection or sickness resulting in a fever could quite literally cook their brains and push them into a feral state, prior degradation or not. He was exceptionally happy that John had ceased using casual hypodermics. “I’d like to purchase a bundle of Calmex.” She only granted him five doses at a time, which he found reasonable.

“But of course.” She disappeared, her small form dropping down to rifle through a low shelf.  

“I’d, um…” He coughed again. “I’d also appreciate an increased ration of rad meds.”

“Are you planning a trip to the Sea?” she asked from under the counter.

“No, it’s… John and I, we… exchange fluids.” He felt his face burn.

Curie straightened, knocking her head against the counter’s lip. “Oh. Yes. Of course. Pardon.”

He stroked his stubble, willing humiliation away as she rose, rubbing the top of her head and wincing. She set a roll of pre-filled Calmex syringes onto the counter and plucked a few packages of Rad-X and Rad-Away from a shelf. “This is, let us say, seventy caps?”

“Of course,” he said, counting out caps.

It felt odd to pay for supplies that were technically his from the Minuteman caravans – he’d never paid for a single item while with the Brotherhood – but he understood, partially due to John’s lectures, that it was for a greater purpose. The funding of a Commonwealth bank, predictably located in Goodneighbor which technically sat in the Financial District, would be a boon to developing an economic infrastructure. _Can’t ask people to pay in bullets and favors forever_ , John liked to say. _We got the roads, we got the manpower, time to get off our asses and take back the city. All of it._ A lofty endeavor, one backed by the newly appointed Mayor MacCready, the Overseers of both Vaults 81 and 88, Roxanne Kessler from Bunker Hill and, oddly enough, Mother Isolde from the Glowing Sea. Danse suspected that John had performed some _miracle_ for the Children, riding rumors that floated down from Far Harbor. John had been quite busy stoking the feeble beginnings of a new Commonwealth Provisional Government to life. Good God, what a time to live in, with hope so close and the Institute looming so large.

Danse missed the cruel efficiency of the Brotherhood, to take the fight to the front lines rather than wait for the first shots to be fired. The Minutemen, for all their growth, were still children with paper hats and cardboard swords, playing war. He handled settlement defenses as best he could against the enemies of the Wastes – beasts, mutants, Gunners, raiders and early synths. He didn’t always lead the charge, fearing discovery by wandering Brotherhood patrols. His paladin armor was Sterling’s again, and his salvaged combat armor was laughable in comparison. Still, it was a great honor to serve as General. He had an insatiable need to hold a rank and title, probably a default setting in his Institute programming. It was hard not to feel unworthy of such an opportunity, given that he was both a fugitive and a robot.   

Both John and Deacon would kick him for thinking things like that. Since the Battle of Bunker Hill, and the thinning of Sanctuary’s population, the three of them had become close. Danse would drill Deacon for information, learning about synths, no longer content to grasp blindly, imagining answers. Deacon parted with what knowledge he had which, truthfully, hadn’t been much. Railroad agents moved assets, didn’t study them, and certainly weren’t scientists. Enormous gaps still stood in Danse’s history – his construction, his purpose, his connection with Cutler – all secrets the Institute held with no way to access them.

A ruckus swelled down the road at the mouth of Sanctuary Hills – loud, cheery voices, and the excited baying of a dog. Curie and Danse looked at each other before turning towards it. Jun Long poked his head out of the cornfield, swiveling in that direction. From his junk shop, Sturges squinted down the road and gave a whistle. “Whoo-ee! Will ya look at that?” he drawled in appreciation. 

John walked proudly up the street, beaming, someone in an enormous set of power armor at his side while Dogmeat scampered in circles around them. Sunlight gleamed off the armor’s plating and its seemingly deformed helmet. It took Danse half a minute to place that he was looking at X-01 armor, and that the surface of it was unmarred, glowing almost silver in the light. It was Enclave-style – bulky, and with that hideous, insectoid helmet, but the body of it… the body was magnificent.

Danse strode down to meet them and the person in armor stopped before him. “I found something for you.” The voice belonged to Sterling. “You want it?” The man stamped in a circle, showing the armor off.  

“It’s pristine!” Danse gasped. He reached out a reverent hand to stroke the metal forearms. “Where on Earth did you find it?”

“On some random rooftop. Weirdest thing.”  

“I mighta tipped him off,” John said, rubbing knuckles against his chest, failing to look humble.

The back of the armor cracked open, and Sterling spilled out dressed in his vault suit. Good. Danse liked it less and less seeing him in Brotherhood orange. Sterling looked at Danse expectantly and patted the suit’s shoulder. Danse stepped closer, running feather-light fingertips over the glossy plating. He peeked inside. The internal padding seemed thicker than a T-60’s and very inviting. He took a breath and hopped into it, closing his eyes. The suit closed around him, cradling him in a firm yet comfortable grip. The inside smelled like the Prydwen had when it had first been launched, that new vehicle scent – oiled leather and fresh welding. He reached up to twist the helmet off before opening his eyes.

“There a problem?” Sterling asked, one brow raised.

“I can’t wear the helmet. I won’t.” With its slanted eyes and sharp features, the helmet was atrocious. He’d look like an Enclave foot soldier with it attached. Nausea-inducing memories of the battle at Adam’s Air Force Base would never die. He tossed the helmet to Sturges, who had strolled over to gawk. “Here, do what you want with it. Sterling, thank you. I’m not sure how to repay you. It’s glorious.”

Sterling’s mouth quirked, and he and John exchanged a glance. “Well, without the helmet,” said Sterling, “it’s not like you can walk the Wastes as freely as we’d like, but… you’re welcome. No repayment required.”

Sturges hurried to his workshop, staring down at the helmet with wide eyes. The Longs shrugged and went back to working. “Curie,” Sterling hailed, nodding at her. “Do you have a sec? Stingwing took a poke at me outside Taffington. Could you have a look?”

“Certainement,” she said, gesturing that he follow her back to her home-based clinic. Dogmeat went with them, nosing the ground and snorting in delight to be back.

For the moment, Danse and John were alone. “You’re so huge.” John grinned up at him, rolling a suggestive shoulder, blinking coquettishly.

“I do believe you enjoy that,” said Danse, his own smile spreading, pleased to match John’s playfulness.

“Oh, I do. I sure do.”

John stepped onto the enormous feet of X-01’s legs and gripped the scoop of the torso at the collar, hoisting himself up to reach Danse. His worn lips were warm and wet. Danse moved his heavy arms clumsily, fearful of crushing the slim ghoul. John noticed his handicap and launched into kissing his face, his forehead, under his jaw, everywhere he could, until Danse was breathless with laughter and ducking away.

It was a good day to be alive in Sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren't enough thanks in the world to bestow upon FangirlAnonymous for beta-ing this beast, but I will shower her with cat memes and dark humor for as long as my internet connection holds.


	2. The Last Man Alive

NATE

Sanctuary Hills, MA

August 15th, 2288

The cleanest place in the entire Commonwealth – above ground, at least – had to be Curie’s home clinic. The surfaces of her home were all metal, easy to sterilize and free of staph or tetanus. Her kitchen housed a chemistry station, the overhead cabinets filled with supplies. The freshest, most preserved linens covered metal-framed beds that cluttered every room in her home, many of which were divided by tall, carboard partitions.

Seated on one of her exam beds in what used to be a laundry room, Nate hooked a thumb under the collar of his slightly-unzipped vault suit and exposed a circle of red-tinged flesh. Curie _tsk_ ed and prodded him in the trapezius. “How on Earth, I wonder, did you receive a sting though all that armor?”

Nate grunted at the tender touch. “Happened before I got it.”

She left him briefly before returning with a large syringe. Antibiotic injectors looked a lot like a hit of Psycho. His stomach clenched as the needle drove into the wound, but he held perfectly still. Dogmeat lay with his head on Nate’s feet, looking up at him with concerned brown eyes.

“You simply must be more careful, monsieur. The site of a stingwing’s puncture can quite easily become infected. Standing bodies of water are prime nesting places. You should wear headcoverings and long-sleeves. Reinforced is best. Additional protection –”

Curie’s lectures could go on for quite a while, and Nate lapsed into turning her out. Her nattering reminded Nate of his mom, always concerned with a sermon once any real danger had passed. _Raising a boy is like pulling a second shift as a nurse,_ she would tell her friends on afternoons when they got together to smoke, drink wine, and gossip. A wistful sensation tugged at Nate’s heart. His mother had died in the blast… or shortly thereafter. Death was always at hand, almost a close friend by now, reliable and constant. His unit, his mother, Nora. He was supposed to be done, having won his metals and gone home to lead a boring, simple life with his nuclear family. Even after the end of the world, after centuries in stasis, Death had waited patiently, ready again once Nate emerged into his new life.

Losing Preston ripped a sizable hole in Nate’s soul. He hadn’t just lost a dear friend, he’d lost a symbol, proof that there was a future for the Commonwealth. It was too hard to think of the Minuteman after, too many memories of the brothers he’d lost in Anchorage, too terrified of being the one they looked up to. Thank God for Danse, who had taken up the mantle of General. Conducting troops and organizing defensive strategies was second nature to the former paladin, his cool, detached competence exactly what was needed.

Oh, Nick… living in the Wasteland without Nick Valentine felt strange and unfair. The best Nate could do was make sure that the Agency didn’t crumble, that the good people of the Wastes still had someone to go to with their troubles, even if they had to settle for some frosty vault-dweller instead of a real detective. That job would have been better suited for Nora, had Nate taken Kellogg’s bullet instead.

Mixed feelings about Strong’s death had never truly settled; theirs was an odd, distant relationship built more on mutually assured destruction than true friendship. The Institute had recovered the body of X6-88, killed in the field. Nate couldn’t summon the sentiment to mourn that cold, soulless creature. Of all his robotic friends, X6-88 had always been the most inhuman, a reminder of what the Institute was good for – efficiency unhindered by emotion or pesky morals. Perhaps some losses were for the best.

He zipped up and snapped his collar in place. Nate thanked Curie for her time, and left her house, Dogmeat at his heels. The midday sun shone brightly overhead, warming his dark hair. He could smell river water, oak trees and moist soil. It was a sticky, humid New England summer, and the damp air sat heavily in his lungs. He stopped in the street to rifle through the travel satchel he always kept with him. He passed over spare ammo, emergency performance chems, and a collection of tiny screws before wiggling fingers into a pack of smokes, freeing one. He brought the filter to his lips and lit up. Everyone in the Army had smoked, and most of America, too. When Shaun was born, he’d quit. This was a dirty, post-war habit he’d picked up from Nick. Another stab of icy loss pierced him.

Parlayed in the street, he was unsure of where to go. Home? No. He rarely visited his old house, the one with the orange door, spending as little time there as possible, haunted by that room at the end of the hall where Shaun’s crib still stood as an alter to the life he’d never have. Nate didn’t sleep well alone and would often slumber in the wooden-walled communal house with bunks of drifters and settlers nearby. The human closeness reminded him of his time deployed with Fox Company. Good ‘ol 108th. Of them, he was the last man alive, unless one of his boys had gone ghoul – maybe even feral – somewhere.

Dogmeat yapped and ran off to chase tiny, ugly, mutated rodents that lived in the brush by the river. The scampering dog drew Nate’s eye to the fields. Codsworth hovered above the carrots, pruning ivy so that it didn’t choke the farm’s fencing. Their brahmin – Speedy – wandered the playground meadow, her bell tinkling, as Jun Long worked the crops. Marcy’s shrill voice came from the vendor stalls, probably insulted by some Minuteman provisioner’s offerings, as nothing was good enough for her. Not their fault – she’d be unhappy in the stands at Diamond City, with anything she desired at her fingertips. Everything except her son.

Nate could empathize. Shaun – Father – was lost to him, full of Nora’s stubborn pride and the Institute’s special brand of propaganda. So, Nate bided his time, splitting his allegiance between all factions, playing the angles, waiting, never tipping too far in any one direction. The American military assigned him to the wrong position. He should have been a spy instead of a solider, as he seemed to excell at misdirection and subterfuge. Deacon was so proud.

Looking out over Sanctuary Hills, it was hard not to find joy in his little community, his new family. But Sanctuary was a shadow of its former self. The location still housed settlers in need, the occasional synth waiting for Railroad extraction, vagrants, but Nate’s original deck of friends had largely dispersed.

Piper had gone back to Diamond City, where her sister and printing press were waiting. Her newspaper was bustling, its circulation picking up in Diamond City, Goodneighbor, and Vaults 81 and 88. MacCready was back where Nate had found him, in Goodneighbor, the town now under his supervision. Cait had up and vanished, an act which Nate had been expecting since the day he met her.

Of those who remained…

Deacon was under Sanctuary-arrest following his stunt at Bunker Hill. Close at hand, he was Nate’s shadow in the Institute. Nate was naïve, but no fool. All he’d allowed Deacon to do was crack a few Intuitive terminals in dark hallways, placing a few backdoor lines of communication. Deacon was no chump, either. Whomever the Railroad had on the inside, they weren’t sharing that person’s identity with Nate. So far as being confined to a single location, Nate suspected Deacon was happy – happy as he’d allow himself to be – at being stationed the same place as Curie. The two of them were cute together, no other word for it.

Danse took his new leadership role seriously and was teaching the Minutemen to defend and flank. His teachings extended to Curie and the Longs, but Sturges refused to participate in gunplay, much to Danse’s frustration. Nate told Danse to let it slide – Sturges had other talents, and a single pacifist in their midst could be excused. Nate puffed on his cigarette and craned his head. He found Danse working on the X-01 suit at the public power armor station in Nate’s old carport, no doubt in order to showcase it. Arrogance was still alive and well in Danse, his particular sin, and was slow to die off. 

The relationship between Danse and John seemed genuine and respectful, the two of them careful to avoid anything gratuitous in public. Witnessing physical contact was rare. Probably Danse’s idea. What a hilarious match. John, who had no shame, and Danse, who found even the slightest of social interactions mortifying. The two of them had moved in together, John using his old house for storage, greedily stacking books and pilfered manuscripts inside.

Nate’s gaze crawled towards the marketplace. A few wooden stalls conducted business, the daily handful of settlers drifting in. Beyond them, the red-tarped caravan tent was unoccupied – as it usually was nowadays, trade now going through Minutemen supply lines. Having seen the list of Institute informants firsthand, Nate had cut ties with all traveling merchants. The Brotherhood wasn’t innocent either, offering compensation or conscription for information. Nate couldn’t really blame the people of the Wastes – especially those that risked the dangers of constant travel – for wanting easy and consistent caps. But strangers couldn’t be trusted, especially with Danse and Deacon here. John had told him of a full Brotherhood patrol sneaking in at dawn. Nate bristled in anger. Teagan was going to get an earful from his paladin about that. _No shakedowns in my hometown, Proctor, Sir._ _Understood?_

The radio in the workshop was cranked, tuned to WRVR. The Silver Shroud was back on the air and under the direction of Kent Connelly. Hungry for notoriety, Rex Goodman had taken the lead role. “The Shroud of death has come for you, evildoers!” Rex added gave a malevolent-sounding laugh. “Mwahahaha!”

“Remember, Mr. Goodman –” Kent meekly interjected “– you’re the hero.”

“MwaHAha! Better?”

“Uh… close enough.”

Nate snorted a laugh and tossed his cig to the ground, crushing it beneath his jumpsuit boot before heading to the workshop. In the shade of the garage, he found Sturges tinkering with the X-01 helmet. The easygoing handyman was one of the first people Nate had met. Always armed with a smile, and rarely armed with a gun, Sturges was a man of shining morals in a world gone to pot. “Hey, boss. Been hopin’ you’d stop by,” Sturges greeted with a smug grin. He set the helmet down and leaned against a workbench. A desk fan slowly pivoted on the tabletop, doing little more than moving stagnant air. “Don’t know when your birthday is, but I got you a present – a way into the Institute. Ground level. Easy access. Well, easy as easy goes these days, I suppose.”

A rush of air left Nate’s lungs and he nearly swooned in relief. “That’s great news.”

Once Ingram downloaded the encoded holotape loaded from the Institute’s server – the same one that gave Danse away – Nate had repossessed it from the Brotherhood. Not a difficult task given his status on the Prydwen. Both Sturges and Tinker Tom had been ecstatic to examine it, busy over the Railroad’s Morse radio, trading insight and theories, working tirelessly to crack through encryptions. Months had passed. Now, finally, headway. If he and Shaun ever had a falling out, Nate would find himself effectively locked out of the Institute. He needed a back-up plan.

“One of the things offa that data you stole,” Sturges continued, “was blueprints for the whole dang complex, including older sections that used to be parta that ol’ college in Cambridge.”

“C.I.T.?”

Sturges fired a fingergun at him. “That’s the one. Institute’s been using the river water as part of coolin’ down their reactor. One of those water pipes leads straight on in, just follow ‘em. Though, uh, whole place is marked _high radiation danger_.”

“Think that’s the standard welcome sign on the way to Commonwealth,” Nate joked. 

“May be, but, uh, yeah – that’s what I got. Oh!” Sturges lifted the desk fan by the base and plucked piece of paper from underneath. “There’s this gate inside the piping. I pulled you the code.”

The paper had a crude drawing of Cambridge on it and a series of numbers at the top. A sewer entrance near Ticonderoga was marked with a red X. Nate crisply folded the yellowed paper and tucked it into his holster. There were no pockets on his vault suit. “Thanks, Sturges. This is above and beyond, pal.”

Sturges waved the gratitude away. “T’weren’t nothing a few sleepless months and constant herbal stimulants couldn’t cure. Felt good to be part of the endgame, ya know? Once you get in – if we end up goin’ this route – you should be able to set up a relay, bring in support teams.”

“Should?”

“Well,” Sturges said a bit sheepishly, tapping fingers against the workbench. “This is all kinda hypothetical, but it’s the best we got.”

Nate’s lips pressed tight. Not ideal. The Commonwealth felt about to pop. He might have his son’s ear, but the rest of the Institute’s directorate didn’t trust him. He found himself left out of many conversations, though rumors had a way of riding the wind, and word was that the Institute planned to wipe the surface of the Commonwealth clean. Maybe there was still time to fix this, to make someone see reason. But his faith in Shaun and Maxson’s mercy weren’t high. And the Railroad? They were hurting bad after Bunker Hill, their numbers strained.

“Did you guys finish the rest of it?” Nate asked, his throat dry and scratchy. This could all be a terrible idea.

“You betcha,” Sturges answered. “Day before last. Tom sent the tape over in an eyebot’s hold.” He snatched a holotape from a drawer and held it up. The peeling label read _Relay Control_. “This’ll let ya reprogram the Institute relay. Again, hypothetically,” he cautioned. He tossed the tape back in the drawer. Sturges lifted a small metal box with a lot of wires attached and a radiation danger symbol on the exterior. “Part one,” he said. “A fusion pulse charge. You stick that puppy on a reactor, and it’ll destroy the whole she-bang. Best part, it can be detonated remotely. Safety first.”

Sturges held up a second item. “Part two,” he said. “The detonator. It’ll make one honey of a boom-boom once that reactor implodes. Up to you how you use it.” The detonator looked cartoonishly simple – a glass box housing a big red button. A sticker read, _In case of Judgment Day, break glass_.

Nate blew a low exhale. “Detonated from where?”

“Someplace high up and far away’d be my choice. Though, uh –” Sturges shifted nervously, putting both items away “– I hope to God we ain’t gotta use this. Going into the Institute guns-blazin’ seems like suicide.”

“Yeah…” Nate modestly nodded. “It does. Thanks again, man.”

Sturges tossed him a lazy salute and went back to inspecting the helmet.

Absent-mindedly, Nate ambled down the road, his head down, lost in thought. He swallowed. Those looking humble-looking devices could destroy something sizable – Liberty Prime. The Prydwen. The Institute. The huge chunk of the Commonwealth.

“Heya, brother,” a familiar voice rasped. Nate jerked his head up.

John was coming down the steps from his old house, the one near the bridge. He wrote essays and propositions there, in the quiet solace of the empty house, sending them to those who had influence throughout the region. He never sent anything to Diamond City.

He looked so small and frail in his leathers, hardly the man Nate met last fall. It was strange to think of him as just _John_ , no surname, no grand identity. But he’d left Goodneighbor behind in favor of moving into Danse’s house and adopting a new role – Secretary of the Commonwealth. More accounting and numbers, less head-cracking. Nice and respectable, even if he had little time left to devote to Goodneighbor. General Danse had given him the title but, given their relationship, Nate wasn’t sure how official the designation was. However, no one else was clamoring to fight John for the job.

Nate altered course and met him by the porch. John had a textbook tucked under an arm. He preferred documents, terminal printout and books to holotapes… just like Nora. A small smile bubbled up at the memory, both wistful and sweet.

John leaned against the doorframe. “Can an old friend snag a hit?” His odd, gold irises glittered, reflecting sunlight. _A natural occurrence_ , he’d explained to Nate, who’d been stunned to see those new eyes. _Don’t get hung up about it._

Nate hesitated in the walkway, sweating under his vaultsuit in the summer heat. The fabric stuck unpleasantly to his skin. Although the trip to Vault 95 had proved successful for Cait, it hadn’t for John, his ghoul body not compatible with the addiction-curing system with the vault lab. Still, John was dealing well with his dependence, his addiction largely beyond his control. At this point, the chems John took were medicinal, staving off full-scale withdrawal. The stress of going through that could be fatal to already-comprised ghoul systems. Or so he’d heard.

Nate fished a canister of Jet from his pack and handed it over. So, uh,” Nate mumbled, dancing around a sensitive topic, “you’re doin’ alright.”

Shrugging, John sank down to take a seat on the porch step. He set the book aside and shook the inhaler with loose-wristed practice. “It’s less. The need, I mean. Was always less before…” he trailed off. John sucked a breath through his nasal passage. “No matter. Things are good now.”

Nate sat next to him, glad to duck into the shade. He peeked at the book and found it a study on Aztecan irrigation. “Haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“You ain’t seen much of anyone lately, brother,” said John, lifting the inhaler. “Been spending a fat-ton of time elsewhere.” He tossed his head back and sucked a hit, holding it in his chest.

“I’m… trying to make headway with my son,” Nate answered. More like battering a brick wall.

“No kidding,” John said, voice hitched tighter by holding the chem in his lungs. “Heavy shit.” He blew out, lips pursed into an O. “When we makin’ another library run?”

Nate gave a short laugh. “You don’t ever stop, do you?”

“Nope.” John winked and took another hit.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Nate lightly rubbing his palms together. “You remind me of my wife.”

John smirked. “Heh. That’s nice, but I’m with someone.”

This guy’s mind was in the gutter so often it was a wonder it didn’t mildew. Nate butted him with a shoulder in reprimand. “I mean, pushing yourself too far, taking on more than you can handle.”

Setting the inhaler aside, John rested his head against the doorframe and closed his eyes. Everything was probably slowing and disorienting due to the Jet. “I’m handlin’ it just fine,” he said, slurring a bit. “Got a good support net. I feel good. Honest.”

It was heartwarmingly nice to see John happy, not anxious to throw himself from one fight to the next, to watch him be able to sit and be contented. “And things with Danse? They’re good?”

John opened his eyes and gave a few lazy blinks. He waited a moment before saying, “He tries to make everybody happy, at the cost of himself. He still loves the Brotherhood. Even now. Maybe he works so hard with the Minutemen just to show his old, bigoted buddies how good he is at something, beggin’ for their approval.” John scratched at one shoulder, sighing. “Don’t even know if that’s really his fault. He was programmed to love them.”  

Nate drummed fingers against his knee. He tapped the book. “And who are you showing off for? Setting your sights on Diamond City?” John’s expression darkened, daring Nate to say it. No. Nate wouldn’t do that, to imply outright that most of what John did was to garner attention from the other McDonough, the Commonwealth’s other mayor, that all anyone really did was gain familial approval.  

With a snort, John relaxed, his back thumping against the doorframe. “As if.” He took another drag and shook his head. “Bigger.”

“What do you mean _bigger_? How big?”

“How big was Boston?” he asked in a simple, nonchalant manner.

Nate’s mouth hung open. “You… you want the whole Commonwealth?”

“Ha.” John chortled and smiled up at the sky. “Wouldn’t that make my brother’s head pop? Me, being his administrator.”

“How on Earth would you even go about doing that?”

“Got plans. Just… hope I’ve got time.” John’s line of sight dropped, skimming ground level again. His eyes sharpened and he ambled to his feet. “Well, ho-ly shit.”

Nate followed his sightline until he spied Piper coming over the bridge, her red coat over one shoulder, waving as she spotted the two of them. John stooped to grab the book and toss it back inside before they both ventured out to meet her.

“Hey there, boys,” she said, hugging Nate and lifting her chin to John.

“Piper,” Nate said, releasing her. “What are you doing up here?”

“Same ol’, same ol’. Chasing a story. Couple of missing people. You know, the usual.” She took her cap off, wiped at her brow, and replaced it. “Our favorite mayor’s been gone for three days. Walked straight out of the city and didn’t come back. No reason, no forwarding instructions. That sound weird to you?”

Nate peeked at John and immediately regretted it. The ghoul looked like someone had cranked his blood to a low boil. Spots of mottled red appeared on his torn-up cheeks. “Guy just… took the fuck off?” he growled.

“E-yup,” affirmed Piper. “Bunker Hill also said they lost a trader.”

“Define lost,” said Nate.

“Hasn’t checked in for a long while. Somebody named, uh…” She paused, consulting her notepad. “Cricket. Heard of them?”

“Her,” John answered, mouth turned into a wicked frown.

“ _Her_ , I guess.” Piper flipped her pad closed. “So, Blue – since you know all the things, what’s up? Think it’s the boogeymen?”

“Beats me,” said Nate. Cricket was on the informant list for the Institute, but something didn’t smell right. “It’s not really an Institute move to take Cricket without replacing her, right? Draws the kind of attention they like to avoid.”

“So, somebody else, then?” she asked.

“Look,” started John. “Traders have beef to spare, and not the brahmin kind. Refuse the wrong people, end up in the wrong zone, and you’re done. Gonna miss her chems, though.” At Piper’s disgusted expression, he elaborated, “ _On principle._ Good stuff makes other good stuff appear to compete with it. That’s what a free market does.”

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, shifting her attention to Nate. “And the Jewel’s mayor? What about that?”

“I… I don’t know. I’m sorry.” There was the nagging sensation that Nate _should_ know, that he’d missed some huge clue. The tension hanging over the region thickened. “I can ask around, see if he passed one of the Minutemen checkpoints. Put Danse on the alert.”

“Alright, sounds good.” She moved to his side and they walked up the street, heading to the radio tower.

They’d gone about fifteen paces before Nate realized John wasn’t with them. He glanced back and saw him still standing by the bridge, staring blankly over the green hills that blocked Diamond City and the rest Boston from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't care if this makes me a super Fallout nerd, but I'm pumped to have actually crossed the Old North Bridge when I visited Boston last year.


	3. Another Life, or (NAME REDACTED)

DEACON

Sanctuary Hills, MA

August 15th, 2288

Bored.

Bored bored bored bored bored.

As the sun dipped over the western mountain range, Deacon leaned back in his lawn chair, blowing a long puff of air, and propped his sneakers up on a short stack of roofing tiles. The rifle sitting crossways in his lap had its safety on. Being on watch up here at the tippity-top of the Commonwealth often meant bug-patrol and keeping an eye out for wild dogs, but there wasn’t much to see from atop Piper’s roof once the sun went down. The streetlamps below might make walkways safer, but it did squat for being able to see farther then partway over the bridge. Anything could be out there – deathclaws, behemoths, a posse of mimes – all terrifying to run into in the dark of night.

The faint classical music that played at the edge of his mind – a side effect of carrying a Courser Chip too close to his brain – had devolved into little more than an ambient soundtrack to daily life. He waved to Piper and Fixer, standing by the hedge that separated the rear of Piper’s yard from the fields, swishing his hand in the air like a conductor to the rhythm of the music. Piper cocked her head at him. Fixer ignored him completely, and Deacon dropped his hand. The novelty of his eccentricities must be wearing off now that he had more in common with a transistor radio than a human being.

“Knock-knock,” a lilting voice called, accompanied by a few raps on the building’s wall.

“Who’s there?” he responded, planting the seeds of a joke as he got up. “And please don’t say _orange_.”

There was a microscopic pause. “I’m afraid I do not understand the reference. Is this part of a joke?”

He made his way to the roof’s edge and looked down. Curie was halfway up the ladder that led to the roof, the handle of a basket nestled in the crook of one arm. He stooped to give her a hand up. “Kinda. But don’t worry about it. Never was that funny, come to think of it.”

Her delicate hand took his, and he hoisted her up. Even at her full height, she only hit him mid-chest. She let go and set to work pulling a checkered tablecloth from the basket, smoothing it out, the fabric covering a few gaps in the tiles.

Routines were few and far between for people like Deacon, living their lives on the road, each day different, adopting a new identity every time they spoke to someone. But Curie reveled in repetition, taking comfort in predictable outcomes, wearing the same brown flannel and jeans and adhering to the same daily schedule. Since his banishment to Sanctuary, she insisted on sharing a meal with him on watch nights. It could have been the influence of those pre-war video holotapes she loved. It could have been her own interpretation of what human courtship should look like. It could have been the fact that his lifelong loneliness had become transparent, a crack in his armor. Curie fully understood the effects of prolonged isolation, and the toll it took. She wouldn’t judge him for it. Such a thing was outside her nature, and he was grateful for that.

The spread tonight was a mystery-meat-and-tato stew, an unopened can of chips, and a full jug of mutfruit juice. Her set-up was picture-book perfect, complete with cutlery, napkins, and a bottle of glowing resin to dine by.

“Ya, know,” said Deacon, all her effort making him a little squeamish. All this is was too much, wasted on him. Most of his undercover meals had been quick, harried breaks. He’d even eaten rotten or discarded foods depending on where his assignment was. “I’da been fine with some cold iguana-on-a-stick. Although, I don’t have any. And iguana is people.”

“Adequate nutrition is an important part of daily life.” Curie poked a napkin into the collar of her flannel. “Come, come. Sit.” She patted the tablecloth. The neon glow for the bottled resin highlighted her features, making her appear luminous and achingly pretty.   

Careful to face the bridge – he was on watch after all – Deacon sat on folded legs. “Oh, yeah. Three squares and macros – I know all about a proper Wasteland diet. I am a doctor, after all.”

“You are not a licensed medical professional,” said Curie, ladling the stew into chipped bowls.

“Well, not if you string all of those words together.” Deacon accepted the bowl she offered and tapped his lips with a bent spoon. “Hmm, maybe it was just a license to kill…” He tucked into his meal, chatting between bites. “Got that during my time with the Gunners. That’s where I found out I have type-O blood. Universal donor. Made me so valuable I got promoted to Senior Major General in three months flat.”

Curie’s bites were smaller and tidier. “That seems like an honorable position. You must have been so proud.” She beamed at him, eyes shining.

A bite lodged in Deacon’s throat. He had to try a few times to get it down. “Alright. You got me. That was a lie.”

Curie frowned and swirled her spoon in the stew, thinking. “Why do you wish me to believe things that are untrue? Is this a challenge? Do you wish for me to verify these accounts?”

“No. No, sweetie, it’s just… It’s a joke.”

“Oh, yes,” she said simply, nodding. “Of course.”

He spent the rest of their meal in quiet reflection while she watched the stars wink into existence.

Sarcasm and much of his humor was lost on her, and it felt almost mean fibbing to her, even in jest. Curie existed as the one thing in his life that was real and honest. Dez and Fixer both kept secrets, and Bishop had always been so guarded. Curie was nothing but open, ready with bright smiles and encouragement. He was torn, half the time longing for her to call _bullshit_ and put him in his place. But she never did. It wasn’t even entirely due to naivety – she simply accepted him, lies and all. That was more than he could ever hope for, and certainly more than he deserved. 

“Have you noticed,” Curie asked, squinting off at the spindly trees on the other side of the river, “that the crows do not eat? At least, I have not observed them doing such.”

“Then they’re missing out,” said Deacon, finishing a long draught of juice. Maybe the birds absorbed nutrients through their feathers. With mutated wildlife, who knew?

As Curie packed up their picnic, he tossed the can of chips onto the lawn chair for later. With so few people in Sanctuary these days, he wasn’t going to be relieved from his watch any time soon.

“May I stay with you?” she asked, holding cautious hope on her face.

_I’d like that more than anything in the world._

“Best not,” he said, shaking his head. “You’d be a distraction. Not in a _bad way_ distraction, but in an _I’d rather just stare at you instead of the murky darkness_ kind of way.”

Curie smiled, holding immeasurable affection in her eyes. “With you, I am alight and sparkling. I contain all of the stars.” She took his hand and kissed his palm.

He… well, honestly, he felt a little sick. His stomach flopped all over place, mounting emotion engaging in fisticuffs with basic, common sense. _No, no, no_ , he had to remind himself. _We’ve gone over this._ _Arms’ length._ She wasn’t to be blamed – these were conversions he’d had with himself.

“Pftt. You’re not just a light,” he said, gingerly retrieving his hand. He booped her on the nose. “You’re a lantern. Warm, homey... and you guide me back.” He squeezed her shoulder before retreating to the edge of the roof.

“Good night, mon bien-aimé,” she said in her honey-sweet voice.

He stared out at the night-darkened Wasteland, still as a mannequin. Multiple clangs told of her descending the ladder. _You’re a bastard, old man_ , he admonished himself, _teasing her, testing her, wasting her wonderous new life._ How terribly human of him to want so deeply, to test the limits of his abilities. They could kiss, and he could lease his body to her, but love? No. That door was locked forever, the key long gone. But affection and caring, he could do enough of that. It was the best he could give.

Faint chatter rose at the back-end of Institute-radio, overlapping with the music, the words distorted and weak. It was like listening to someone down a long hallway and behind a door. Though he strained, Deacon couldn’t make anything out. The babble ended, and the music resumed in full. 

Meh. Sometimes that happened. Brotherhood frequencies, Radio Freedom, the Railroad Morse line, WRVR – the Commonwealth was thick with airwaves. Some lines were bound to get crossed.

Deacon hummed in thought as he loosened his pants and took a piss over the side.

“Jesus Christ, Deacon!” shouted Fixer. Bushes rustled below as if the man threw himself backwards. Served him right for not announcing his arrival.

“Watch out!” called Deacon. “Waterfall!”

“For crying out loud,” Fixer grumbled. “Put it away, I’m coming up.”

Done, Deacon did up his pants and took a seat in his chair. He popped the tight seal of the potato crisp canister and fished for a chip as Fixer joined him on the roof.

“You ever realize how much people are like potato chips?” Deacon pondered, holding a chip between two fingers, much like he would a cigarette.

“In this world, or in the land of crazy that you hail from?”

“I mean –” Deacon went on, ignoring Fixer’s dubious tone “– there you are, happy and secure in the dirt, and then someone comes along, cuts you up and flings you into a bubbling cauldron of torment. After that, you end up different – all hard and brittle.” He crushed the chip in his fist, smashing it to dust. He opened his hand and brushed crumbs from it. “True process. Read it on the back of the package.”

“You are an odd duck, bud.” Fixer shook his head, clearly baffled.

“Maybe,” Deacon agreed, placing the lid back on the crisps. “Dissociative, antisocial, low impulse control… My mom says I’m special. And I never could say no to a good surgery.”

“I do know. That’s how you’ve ended up here.” Fixer tapped at the back of his neck, mirroring where Deacon’s Courser Chip was implanted. He was the only person outside of HQ that knew of Deacon’s augmentation. “Speaking of, it’s test time.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Deacon whined. Fixer had made him do this half a dozen times already. “I’m on watch. How’m’I supposed to watch when everybody keeps coming up here?”

“Let’s be honest, Dogmeat takes watches more seriously than you.” Fixer raised his voice. “Isn’t that right, boy?” Down below, the dog barked in response. “Alright, then.” Fixer clicked his Pip-Boy light on, unfurled a piece of paper and held out a pen. “Draw me the Institute.”

Deacon pouted but took the items. He sank into his chair and sketched the best he could, basing his designs on the hours of drilling Fixer had implemented. Since the Institute was sort of a long tube, he opted to do an aerial view with a sperate image for every floor. Each level was circular, branching off here and there to older sections and specialized departments.

He’d been to the Institute in person with Fixer before, but only to do slight recon and hacking. Thanks to the Chip, he could hitch a ride in, but not go alone. It seemed like a real dull place – all twisting, bleached hallways and stacks of metal cases. Well, that was all the Institute that Deacon had seen.

When he was done, he handed the paper back. “Tell me I’m not incredible,” he purred, putting hands behind his head.

“You’re not,” said Fixer, frowning at the drawing. “You flipped Bioscience and the Retention Bureau.”

 _Shit._ That would be the difference between facing a roomful of nerds versus a fleet of coursers.

“Knew it. Just testing you,” Deacon covered. “Besides, if there’s a problem, I’ll wing it.”

“Deacon –”

“Really. That’s where I shine. The element of surprise.”

“ _You_ aren’t’ supposed to be the one surprised.”

“Hey, don’t tell me how to do my job,” Deacon groused, his joking nature starting to bleed away.  

“You’re a fraud, not a fool,” Fixer put lightly. “If something happened to you… I don’t want to have to tell Curie why you didn’t come back.”

 _Low blow, Fixer. Ouch._ “Don’t do that,” Deacon scolded with rare, deadly seriousness. He stood slow, uncoiling his height like a snake. “Don’t make me the bad guy, the chump, the loser that can’t keep on top of a situation. I won’t… I won’t let someone down like that. Not again.”

Whoa. When had the air gotten squeezed from his lungs? He felt winded and dizzy. Blood rushed to his head.

“Are you oka–?”

“Fine,” Deacon snapped. He held out his hand. “Lemme do it again. I can get it right this time.”

Fixer shook his head and snapped off the light. “Tomorrow, pal. Just… enjoy some quiet up here tonight, alright? Get some air.”

Deacon gulped and nodded. Fixer didn’t touch him – thank God, he was so high on that blood-surge that he might have broken the guy’s arm – but instead gave an awkward sort of goodbye wave before heading down the ladder.

Picking up the rifle, Deacon resumed his watch. As he came down from… whatever that was, he shook slightly. Curie’s sweet, earnest face clashed with the image of another woman, one with red hair, rotating on a chain noose.

Barbara. His wife from another life.

He closed his eyes for a moment, guilty to have forgotten her. Or, at least, not carried her at the forefront of his mind. She’d been too good for him, too good for some punk kid that ran with a bad crowd. She’s been better than good. Perfect, really. He hadn’t pieced it together until years later **–** she’d been manufactured to be perfect.

Deacon scratched at his scar, trying to escape the echoes of his past, to find solace in the melody that played in his mind.

The music stopped.  

Clear as day, a voice declared, “Initiating.”

He was struck by what sounded and felt like an electric gunshot. It shook the roof, his bones, all the way down to what was left of his soul. The rifle dropped from his hands as he clapped hands over his ears. He fell to his knees, incapacitated, swallowed whole by that white whale of sound.

Everything dissolved into blue-streaked light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fabulous place for writing advice, tips,and sarcasm is [Jenna Moreci's YouTube channel.](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCS_fcv9kBpDN4WWrfcbCrgw/) Two paws way up!


	4. The Final Option

JOHN

Sanctuary Hills, MA

August 15th, 2288

The hulking X-01 suit rigged in Danse’s living room armor station looked like it had taken a fat hit of Buffout. Its wide, arcing neck guard at the rear of the torso gave the suit a rounded appearance, the arms and legs sporting swollen yet sleek curves. It hung like a trophy, immaculate and polished, still without its helmet.

Sitting on the kitchen island, John stared at it, fingering Danse’s holotags and ruminating. “Ya know,” he began. “You missed the whole point of that armor.”

“Did I?” Danse, in his jeans, beat-up boots, white tank and open flannel shirt, didn’t bother to turn around. His bomber jacket hung neatly on a peg by the door, too hot to wear in summer months. All his focus was on tending to a radstag roast simmering in a tall cooking pot atop a wood-burning stove. He had more patience than John did, and actually enjoyed the process of cooking, an opportunity that was probably rare while serving in the Brotherhood.

“S’not a prize for you to hang on your wall. Was so you could be free again and go where you wanna without worrying. Ain’t you tried of hiding?”

“Don’t you tire of mimicking low-brow speech?” Danse countered, sparing John a sly look.

John hummed in his chest. “Valid.”

It was abundantly clear that traversing Minuteman locales was a constant strain for Danse. Though he did it without complaint, he never looked too pleased leaving. Where he was used to touring in a tank, now he traveled under the cover of darkness and shadow, vigilant, in helmeted cage armor. Not an uncommon get-up for folks traveling alone, but the protection it offered was minimal and, as John felt, not worthy for someone of Danse’s status. He should look as important as he was, an inspiration to anyone who saw him, a symbol of hope and daring bravery given all that he’d overcome.

It sucked that Danse – his noble, stalwart, get-it-done Danse – had to remain anonymous, the Minutemen’s secret General, while those serving under him still thought Nate their leader. _Though_ , John tapped his booted heels against the island as he thought, _humble was a good look on the guy._ Once, he would have deemed it impossible for Danse to undertake a position with no accolades attached to it, no ranks to climb, no chapter of fellow soldiers to salute him for a job well done, no glory. His job was just hard work, grinding though each settlement’s defenses one-by-one, training strange farmers in small clusters, inching the Minutemen towards prominence one minuscule step at a time.

As John watched Danse’s broad back, a stifling surge of affection and respect rose in his chest. Danse had pulled himself out a depressive gutter and become more than either had thought possible. He smiled down at the tags, the thin metal warm between his fingers. “You remember when we went to Lake Shore?” he asked. “In… Jersey was it?”

Danse nodded, stirring the pot. “I had burst my eardrums a week prior. An explosion in West Virginia. We had a very quiet trip.”

“But we sure used our mouths plenty.” Mischief crept into John’s grin as he leaned forward and snagged the back of Danse’s pants, hauling him away from the stovetop. Danse twisted to face him and gave a modest smile, his cheeks barely turning pink. Good for him, becoming less and less uneasy at the mention of sex in general.

John pulled him nearer, wrapping legs around the backs of Danse’s thighs, pinning him close. He hooked a thumb in Danse’s lower lip and tugged on it, bring their faces together. Danse’s full lips were made to be kissed – maybe literally, who knew? – and John took perverse delight in the fact that he’d been the only one to claim them. Their arms enveloped one another as the moment heated. Of all the pleasure dens John had frequented, nothing quite compared to the euphoria of being in Danse’s arms.

“The roast…” Danse meekly protested, his breath heady and warm.

“Fuck the roast.”

But when the cooking pot began to spout vicious bubbles, Danse peeled John off him. _Later_ , his eyes promised as he went back to cooking. John leaned back on the counter, wiggling a little to alleviate the discomfort in his tight leather pants.

“Whiskey or bourbon?” Danse asked, holding up two bottles.

“With?”

“In.”

“Whiskey.”

Danse dribbled a decent amount in with the roast’s sauce. He grabbed two clean plates and began ladling portions. On the way to his folding table, he paused to nudge John with a knee.

That made John perk up with interest. He normally ate perched on the island while Danse stood beside him, leaning over the countertop. Insisting that tonight they sit properly instilled an air of suspicion, as it usually meant that Danse had something on his mind. John took the whiskey bottle with him to his seat. He poured a few fingers’ worth into a cup and tried to do the same for Danse. Having set the plates down, Danse covered his cup with a hand. “I… no. Not tonight.”

John shrugged and took a gulp of the liquor. No shame in drinking alone. Might be that Danse’s migraines were flaring up again. As of late, they’d been more frequent, reaching some type of crescendo. John hated the helpless feeling he had watching Danse suffer through them but had no solution to offer.

They ate in the type of companionable silence that only came with intimate familiarity, John waiting patiently as he could for Danse to speak up. He was used to fielding a bunch of problems from Danse, but recently, despite his ghoulish form, everything had become smooth sailing. Over the summer, he finally told Danse about what had happened at the Nucleus, that he’d burned a man from the inside out, and that he seemed to have vague control over radiation in the very atmosphere. Truthfully, he’d expected a bigger response – some amount of paranoid yelling and insistence that John was a threat – but synth-Danse was far more tolerant than his Paladin-self had been, and John had drunk the offered comforting support like much needed water. Now, they both understood the draining aftereffects of trauma, and helped each other through it.

Absently, Danse tapped at the edge of his plate with a table knife. He cleared his throat and said, “John… about Hartford.”

John froze with food in his mouth. He swallowed slowly and sipped at his whiskey, staring into the cup, biding time.

Danse had been trying to start a conversation about Hartford for days, and that would forever be one of the few subjects John tried to avoid at all costs. It was an old wound, scarred over but still sensitive. John rose and took his plate to the sink, dumping it, muttering, “Jeez, I know. That was my bad idea and I own it, okay? I ain’t bringing it up and I don’t get why you –”

“John, just… sit down and let me speak, all right?” Danse stood and gestured to the couch shoved up against the front window.

Battling a momentary fight-or-flight urge, John set his jaw, snatched up the bottle of whiskey on the way to the couch, slid past the armor station, and flumped onto it, taking a swig.

Danse took a seat on the couch’s arm. He didn’t say anything right away, and reached for _Righteous Judgement_ , John’s rad-charged sledgehammer, propped up against the wall. He absentmindedly ran his hands over it. Maybe he felt calmer balancing a weapon in his lap, as his expression shifted from nervous to casually neutral. “I understand your hesitation over the topic,” said Danse, “but… I want you to know that you did nothing wrong. I was pig-headed and foolish and short-sighted –”

“Go on,” John cut him off, taking another gulp of whiskey. He couldn’t keep running from this topic, not if he wanted Danse to happily clear his conscience. And happiness was something the man had in short supply.   

Running fingers over the hammer’s hefty head, Danse took a deep, steading breath and said in a wistful voice, “After Hartford, I kept expecting you to show up. It didn’t matter where I was. I’d let my guard down, I’d turn a corner and – there you’d be. Scolding me or threatening or… pleading. But you were never there. And, after a time, I stopped anticipating that I would see you again. I know that idea was absurd. You had no way to know where I was stationed. And now, I want… I wanted to…”

A rush of air left Danse’s chest. He kept swallowing over and over, as if trying to dislodge some great discomfort. Beads of sweat popped up on his skin, and he rubbed them away. “Good Lord. I had no idea this would be so difficult,” he mumbled.

“You doin’ okay?” If not for the mild concern over where this was going, John might have laughed. As it was, he still had to stifle a grin. Danse, on a good day, managed to mangle his sentences. This was a flaming vertibirdwreck.

“Yes. I’m just… I’ve had a long time to think of what to say, but now that I’m actually trying, I’m afraid to bungle it.” Danse’s hands closed over the sledgehammer’s lengthy handle and he sat straighter, locking eyes with John. “I’ve been given such an incredible second chance. You and I, we have something extraordinary. I finally feel I can be alone with you in a crowded room, without shame or fear riding sidecar. But… I can do more. I can do better. I owe you that much.”   

He steeled himself, staring through such intense eyes that John felt his stomach knot. “Although the Institute didn’t give me parents, or siblings, I believe that I–”

From a few houses down, Dogmeat began barking frantic yaps that echoed throughout the development.

John felt it at the same time he heard it – a rush of air and a crack to rend the night and jolt through him. He flinched, folding in on himself and his spine was dealt a vibration that sent burning tingles down his limbs. The whisky bottle fell from his hands and shattered on the floor. A bright flare singed his eyelids, and the loose tiles in the ceiling rattled.

Light and sound were sucked away, leaving absolute stillness in its wake. John’s eyes popped open.

He was alone. Danse and the hammer had vanished, leaving only the smell of ozone and the crawling sensation of clinging static behind.

John got to his feet, dazed shock crashing over him. For an irrational moment, he considered calling out, as if Danse was hiding behind a door, ready to surprise him. Something more sinister settled in John’s belly, making bile rise and his head spin. He meandered listlessly out the front door, down the step and into the street. Dogmeat’s barks had dissolved into growls and angry-sounding snaps.

Nate burst from the communal house next door, the bright blue of his vaultsuit glowing cobalt under the streetlamps. His face wore a confused expression. He spotted John and spouted his name, running to him.

“Gone,” John murmured.

“What?”

“Dan’s gone. Just, _zzzz_ … and gone.”

As if a bulb clicked in his brain, Nate’s eyes widened in horror. He left John and rushed into Curie’s house, calling for her.

Mama Murphy, the Longs, and a few settlers spilled into the road, chatting in muted tones. Piper pushed through them, calling, “Blue?”

“Check on Deacon!” Nate yelled from inside Curie’s.

Piper took off, pounding down the street.

The whole world was swirling. Though John felt tipsy, he knew he was sober. The pounding of his heart made his eardrums hurt. Was this how Danse felt sometimes – the headaches, the sudden deafness, so overwhelmed by events that his mind threatened to shut down? Though John wanted a cigarette, he couldn’t muster the strength to light one. He stood there, useless and catatonic, listening to the frightened babble of the settlers. Dogmeat ran circles around his legs before laying down on his shoes.

No. No, things were finally alright. Danse couldn’t be lost, zapped into oblivion without notice.

Piper raced back, out of breath. “No go, Blue,” she panted as Nate reemerged, his hand rubbing at his face. Beneath a furrowed brow, his eyes darted about in deep thought.

A whirring made everyone look down the road. Codsworth came floating towards them, the X-01’s helmet daggling from one claw. “Sir?’”

Nate’s mouth fell open as he snatched the helmet. He turned to the settlers. “Was – was Sturges a synth? Did anyone know?”

“Sturges was a _synth_?” Marcy Long screeched. “This whole time?”

Sturges, the calm voice of reason among the dwindling numbers of the Minutemen. John’s head spun. “That’s how it works,” he quietly said. “No one knows. Dan didn’t know.”

“Blue, what the hell is this?” Piper hissed.

Though Nate stood tall, his fists trembled. “Molecular relay. The components. They’re the only non-organic matter that all synths carry. If… if all components and their carriers were recalled…” His stared at his wrist. The Pip-Boy was gone. He loosened a shaky breath. “A holotape was jammed. I took it off just before… Oh, my God.”

“What about Deacon?” asked Piper, her face scrunched as she tried to piece information together.

Nate’s shoulders sagged. “The Chip.”

“What chip?”

Nate gave an angry hiss, fingers digging into the fabric of his Pipless sleeve. “A Courser Chip. The Railroad put a Courser Chip in his head.”

Piper stood gawking as more chittering came from the settlers.

Nate appeared stricken. “Every synth,” he muttered. “Every last one. Those in hiding, those on the move, the informants, the copies –” he pointed at his empty wrist “– every piece of Institute property.” His arms dropped. “It’s started.”

In one swift move, the Institute had thinned the Wasteland populace and relieved the Sanctuary group of their medic, their engineer, their warrior and their inside man. A controlled mobilization, all taking place underground where no one could interfere.

John didn’t just need a cigarette, he needed a syringe of Med-X big enough to climb into. His attempt at borderline sobriety seemed ill-timed.

“ _Tenpines to Sanctuary Hills_ ,” buzzed Radio Freedom, speakers blaring the appeal. “ _Request immediate support. Over._ ”

The bubble encasing John’s head burst. His life might be in shambles, but he was still solid in a crisis. He switched out of his stupor and into leader-mode, striding towards the riverside radio tower with his pompous _Hancock_ posture. With Danse gone, someone needed to field calls and John was a good enough choice to shoulder the load.

He took a seat at the desk beneath the tower, switched the receiver to manual and placed the headset over his ears. The calls were, predictably, about the lightshow and its aftermath. It had been felt all the way down to Spectacle Island on the opposite side of the Commonwealth. People were missing. People with families, people with friends – people who didn’t know they were synths. John scribbled notes, taking names, trying to calculate the magnitude of what was happening.

The last call was from MacCready, using Goodneighbor’s radio channel. _“Excuse me, but what in high heck is going on? Magnolia just rode a lightning bolt out of The Rail mid-lyric. Took a headcount. We’re missing two triggermen and a butt-ton of drifters, too.”_

“Get your ass up here right now,” John said into the microphone.

_“Whoa, whoa. I’ve got a kid coming up on a transport from the Capital. I can’t just–”_

“Right fuckin’ now, Robert!” John roared, letting a small, feral part of him free.

A beat passed. _“…okay. I’ll be there by daybreak.”_

John ripped the headset off and dropped it. His hands were shaking. He took a moment to breathe before fumbling for that cigarette and lighting it. A little way off, he could see the surface of the river. It looked silver in the moonlight, gentle ripples playing along the bank. After puffing his smoke down to the filter, he lit a second and stood to rejoin Piper and Nate. He found both in Sturges’ workshop, looking sickly under the florescent light. They were nursing nicotine as well.

“How bad is it?” Nate asked, his face wan. His cigarette was crushed between tense fingers. Dogmeat lay by his feet, his head on his paws, whining, feeding off Nate’s anxious energy.

“The Holy Fuck variety,” John answered, rubbing at his forehead over the bandana he wore.

“So, what do we do?” Piper wondered, looking between them. “Railroad?”

Nate shook his head. “They don’t have the numbers since the Bunker Hill massacre.”

“Minutemen?”

“You can’t ask that,” John said. “Can’t ask people to go in blind and fight and die for a cause they don’t believe in.”

“If I can convince them –” began Nate.

“You think we got that kinda time?” John snapped.

Nate swallowed. “No. You’re right.” He steadied himself, sliding into his military persona. This wasn’t his first battle. “Okay. Facts: we’re fucked. They have our people. I don’t have a direct line into the Institute. They’re prepared, and we’re scrambling.”

“What about the transporter at the airport?” Piper asked.

“Burned to a crisp.” Nate’s face pinched in thought. Suddenly, his features went slack. “Oh, hell. Sturges’ plan.”

John and Piper gave each other blank glances. Nate launched into explaining that Sturges had laid out some sort of plot to infiltrate the Institute using tunnels that went all the way down into the depths of the underground facility. “Only… well now I don’t know if that’s an option,” Nate said, seeming downtrodden. “I don’t know if Sturges was a copy, sent to sabotage the Minutemen. Could be a trap.”

“He never said one damn word about Dan,” John pointed out. “If he had, you bet those Institute assholes woulda showed up to grab him.”

Nate gave a slow nod and began to pace in a tight circle. “You’re right. If I use Danse as a barometer – sorry, but, yeah – then I have to believe that Sturges was always on our side and that the plan is valid. But I don’t know what’s waiting in those tunnels, or past them. I don’t know if I have any sway left in the Institute. I don't know if we can get everyone back or if it’s already too late. I don’t know if I can find a way to get _us_ back. And I can’t say that we’ll survive. But I have to try.” He looked at them, a casual apology in his tired eyes. “So… is anyone with me?”

“Fuck yeah, I am,” said John, crushing the butt of his smoke beneath his heel. He was grounded again and filled with the type of fury that only vengeance could remedy.

“It’d make one hell of a story,” Piper agreed, tugging the brim of her cap down over a determined expression.

Nate puffed with pride, giving them a tight nod. “Need at least another gun. Preferably ranged.”

“Handled,” said John. “Mac’s coming up from Goodneighbor.”

“Okay, then. Piper, meds. And get yourself something heavier than that pistol from the armory. John, ammo. And talk with whoever you need to. I want the roads to Cambridge cleared for us.”

“Got it.” John started back toward the radio tower.

Nate fell into step beside him. “I’m going to need to make a call first.”

As Nate settled down at the radio desk, John lit a third cigarette. “This is SL-818P to Cambridge P.D. Repeat, SL-818P to Cambridge P.D.” A pause. “Yes, I know. Goddammit, just put me through!”

John raised a hairless brow. Nate wasn’t using his name. Did that mean the Institute was tapping the airwaves? He snorted. As if any more bad news mattered at this point.

As Nate waited for the connection, he caught John staring. He put his hand over the microphone. “If this spills over… if we can’t fix it… the Brotherhood will have to,” Nate explained. “And if they go down there, everyone will die. Every synth, every scientist, every child born there. And they’ll claim the entirety of Institute technology for themselves. Game over.”

John’s stomach dropped through his knees at the thought. His cigarette went tumbling out of his hands.

“They’re also the final option to combatting the Institute,” Nate elaborated. “If we don’t come back, I’m giving Haylen permission to tell them everything.”


	5. A Friend

DEACON

The Institute

August 15th, 2288

The world had gone white, all color sucked from the environment around him.

Then… trees. Trees with leaves and everything.

Fixer hadn’t said one damn word about trees.

“Oh, man,” he muttered. “I’m so not even here right now.”

The classical tunes of Institute-radio had disappeared now that he was in the monster’s belly.

Homing in on the sound of rushing water, Deacon looked down at his sneakers. A layer of Plexiglas separated him from a flowing stream that ran beneath his feet. He took a side-step away from it and found himself on grass. A few scientists rushed by, and Deacon molded himself against a tree until they moved on. A Gen-2 synth was nearby, up a ways from the bowl-shaped concourse, placidly sweeping the polished concrete floor. Taking advantage of a gap in the bustle of the area, Deacon slunk to it and tapped it on the shoulder.

“Hey friend I forgot mine can I borrow that thanks,” he asked in one rushed sentence, stripping the stark maintenance uniform from the confused synth’s body. He slipped into the garment, liberated the sweeper from the befuddled synth and took to maintaining the grounds, hunkered over the sweeper. He turned as he swept, taking in the entire room. No one would look at him twice, no one ever did thanks to his shades – it was human nature to ignore someone you couldn’t make eye contact with.

Deacon tilted his head back, staring up at an atrium that seemed stretch on forever. A tubular lift system rotated slowly, the glass-encased elevator the centerpiece of the facility. A few people in lab coats rode it down towards the ground floor. All around the periphery, stacks of identical streamlined apartments extended all the way up, a circular, transparent tunnel providing a walkway around each level.

Rows and rows of clear, cylindrical tubes filled the concourse, crowding it.  A person resided within each tube. No. Not a person. A synth that had been relayed _home_. An army of synths. All recalled. Several Institute scientists milled, walking down the rows with clipboards, taking notes on the spooked occupants inside.

A loud, banging sound echoed through the atrium. Deacon dared a few steps closer, cresting the grassy ridge to gain a clearer view of the scene below.

Within one of the holding tubes was none other than Danse, pounding the head of what looked like a fancy sledgehammer against his cage, driving the flat of it repeatedly against the same spot. A fissure formed, becoming larger with each blow. Some of the other trapped synths took his lead, shooting at the tubes with transported handguns, though none could approach the level of damage Danse was causing to his confines. Cracks spider-webbed all over this cylinder, threatening to shatter the entire thing.

“These cells were designed to contain gunfire,” one scientist shouted, pointing, “not whatever _that_ is!”

Danse’s cell exploded outwards in a shower of tiny shards, and several scientists scrambled away in terror. He prowled towards a courser rushing to intercept him and hefted the hammer in menace.

 _“M7-97,”_ a voice over a loudspeaker blared, _“initialize factory reset.”_ The speaker sounded calm, as if they’d been expecting this.

“No!” Danse screamed, panic worming its way into his voice. He swung his hammer at the courser, knocking it flat.

_“Recall code – Andronicus.”_

Life fled Danse’s limbs as he powered down, drooping like a marionette with cut strings, his head lolling over his chest. The hammer dropped from his hand with a heavy thump. Danse’s chest rose and fell, his synthetic brain keeping his organic body alive. His eyes remained open, his stubbornly thick hair still standing up. That beast of a man had been reduced to an inanimate object.

A cadre of Gen-1s appeared, strapped Danse to a backboard and carted him away. One of the accompanying coursers took the sledgehammer with them. A lone unit began sweeping up pieces of the smashed tube as scientists strolled by without giving it a glance.

Additional codes were issued over the loudspeaker, taking down more unruly synths. Deacon shrunk backwards, melting away. He was alone in the Institute with no way to contact the surface.

No, that was a lie. He jolted, hope flaring within. He wasn’t alone.

All of Fixer’s drills burst into his brain.

He followed a curving pathway that encircled the concourse. Keeping his stride slow and nonchalant, sweeper to the ground, he gave area a lengthy scan, trying to pinpoint his exact location. Previously, his visits here had taken place in darkened hallways and storerooms. If he could just find –

There. A sleek terminal with a round screen sat in a dark corner, mostly hidden behind a requisitions cage manned by a dead-eyed Gen-2. An angular door lay just beyond it. Deacon waited, shaking his sweeper out over a sparklingly clean bin and avoiding interest, as someone from the Institute walked by with a courser, shouting at it.

“Unacceptable! I want more patrols with more rounds!”

“Yes, Sir. Of course,” was the courser’s subdued response.

When they passed, Deacon darted to the terminal and booted up the required connection.

Synths didn’t make it all the way to the surface on their own. Someone had been in touch with the Railroad for over a year, giving aid from within the Institute. Escaping synths had inside help, somebody on their side.

They had Patriot.

Deacon’s previous trips hadn’t just been about sightseeing and souvenirs. He’d already laid the necessary groundwork to contact the guy should the need arise. The need was now.

 _Urgent,_ he typed. _Reply immediately._

Several minutes passed while sweat dripped down from beneath his pompadour wig, running into his eyes. He could only sweep the same three-foot section of floor for so long before he gained unwanted attention.

Font on the screen began to unfold.

_Who are you?_

_Friend_ , Deacon typed, abandoning his sweeper.

_Where are you?_

_Here. As in, within the building, near the hubbub. Let me in, Little Pig,_ he added, giving an apprehensive glance over his shoulder. _It’s cold out here._

Another tense moment passed before the door to the side invitingly opened all on its own. Deacon rushed through it, darting into a hallway before the door closed behind him. He took a few seconds to wipe the sweat from his brow before continuing down the service tunnel.

Turning a bend, he almost smacked straight into a young blonde man in an Institute jumpsuit. Lacking a weapon, Deacon’s hands tensed, ready to strangle the stranger if need be.

Watching Deacon’s muscles bunch, the man put his hands up and took a step back. “Was that you?” he asked, eyeing Deacon nervously. “Just now, on the terminal?”

Deacon lowered his hands. “No, it was your great-aunt Ruthie. Are you… are _you_ Patriot?”

The man nodded. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m Liam. Are you with the, ya know –” his voice dropped to a whisper “ – the group I send them to?”

Deacon’s heart sank. _Oh my God._ Patriot was a child, some pink-cheeked teenager. Probably engaging in a revolution he didn’t understand just to piss off mom and dad, acting out, fighting the Power. Though there was a certain charm in that, it didn’t exactly instill Deacon with confidence. He wasn’t sure this fresh-faced kid had half the stomach to do what needed doing.

But if there was one thing Deacon did well, it was smile and put on a good show.

“Yup. Name’s Fixer,” said Deacon. “Looks like it suddenly got crowded down here. Somebody set up a family reunion?”

Patriot’s mouth turned down in distaste. “This was Father’s idea. The guy set to replace him – somebody from the surface – well, he took a scan of our systems. Father let it happen. The tape he made with our info on it was loaded with a virus. Each time it was activated, the coordinates got sent back to us. The airport, an old church, some place way to the north up near the border – forces are set the mobilize on those areas.”

Deacon squeezed his eyes closed. The network scanner that Fixer opened at each faction headquarters. The Prydwen, HQ, Sanctuary. Each now stood to fall. _Jeez, Fixer. Couldn’t you have just taken the thing to the Brotherhood and left it there, letting them take the brunt?_

“So, this is it – the Big One. What we’ve all been waiting for and worrying over.” Deacon open his eyes, feeling a thousand years older.

“Well, there’s one small setback,” Patriot mentioned, shifting a little.

Deacon paused, then gave a somber sigh. “You don’t have the numbers to fight on all those fronts.”

“True,” said Patriot. “But we will after –”

“After you wipe and reprogram every synth you just retrieved.”

Patriot gave a solemn nod.

Deacon gazed at the sprawling whiteness of the tunnel walls, staring at the past. Decades of work on behalf of the Railroad, snuffed out in an instant. The whole time. The Institute had the power to drag back every liberated synth _The Whole Damn Time_. Had they let in happen? Let a few synths go missing here and there to build a legion on reserve, unaware as they built happy new lives thinking they were free? 

Something – some hazy idea, some mad plan tickled Deacon brain. “The synths you helped escape… how do you get them out?”

“There are a few tunnels left over from when the Institute was built. Most are collapsed but some lead to various places within the complex. In, and out. And there are the relays rooms.”

“Relay… _rooms_?” Deacon asked, puzzled. “Plural?”

“Yes. Emergency transports in case of nuclear meltdowns and, well, uprisings.”

Deacon couldn’t help but smile. And this time, it was real. “In case of _synth_ uprisings?”

Patriot tilted his head, trying to latch on to what Deacon was saying. “Yeah. They outnumber the humans here and everyone –” He broke off, his eyes taking on a whole new shine. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

Hope. Oh, desperate, fragile, silly hope. Deacon stepped forward and slung an arm around the man’s shoulder. “This, my young friend, seems like a prime opportunity to misbehave. Are you in?”

“You kidding me?” Patriot’s face broke into an exuberant grin. He didn’t look like a rebellious kid anymore. Now, he looked like a driven young man who understood danger very well and welcomed it headlong. “I’ve been doing this alone for so long, sneaking synths out one at a time. This is the greatest adventure I could ever hope for!”

“Alright, then.” Deacon pulled back, folding his arms and drumming fingers against his biceps. “What do you think about rescuing these synths? Every last one of them?”

Patriot’s eyes widened. Uncertainty creased his forehead. “I think… we’ll need help.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Deacon huffed in agreement. “We’ll need a team. Heck, we’ll need a _tank_.”

Waaaaaaait.  

They had one.

“Where do they take the synths that have been bad?” asked Deacon, smirking.

“I don’t – um… The Retention Bureau, most likely.”

Deacon knew exactly where that was. _Thanks for all the tedious training, Fix._

“Say, kid,” he asked. “You ever pull off a prison break?”

Patriot just stared, his mouth hanging open in awe.

If there was anyone homicidally brave enough to start a brawl within the Institute and win, it would be someone who’d trained years for this, someone who had a personal vendetta fueling them, someone who had somebody they loved up top to fight for.

That someone was former paladin Danse.


	6. The Last Chance

DANSE

The Citadel

October 20th, 2281

Starlight danced on the river, a million tiny sparkles tossed into existence as mirelurks crawled just below the surface, disrupting the water. It was quiet atop the Citadel, far above any rabble at ground level. Though mutants tended to troll the area, tonight was still, a cool autumn evening with no breeze.

“Do you wish you could see it from up here?” Cutler asked, coming up behind him. “Rivet City, I mean.”

Danse frowned at the horizon. Their former home bobbed just out of sight, the Memorial in the distance blocking it from view. “No,” he said, meaning it. His whole world was contained within the pentagon of the Citadel. Dwelling on the past was a wasteful endeavor.

There was a scratching sound as Cutler settled down next to him. There were no guardrails at the top of the Citadel, and they were careful to sit far from the ledge. The seventy-one-foot fall would mean a messy death, and leave any survivors pleading for a swift end. For that reason, almost no one came up this high.

For that reason, this was where he and Cutler spent their heated trysts.

Turning his head, Danse drank up the sight of the man next to him. Cutler’s dark skin glowed indigo in the moonlight, painting him with an ethereal and transcendent cast. He was leaning back, supported by thick arms swollen with muscle. His off-white undershirt pulled tight around his barrel chest and powerful thighs under faded camo-print pants tapered to scuffed boots crossed at the ankle. Danse’s own attire matched – same shirt, pants, and boots – as did his build, virtually a copy of his teammate, old friend, and lover.

Cutler caught him staring and raised a brow. “Are you planning on a course of action, Knight, or just weighing your options?” he asked, dark eyes shining.

Not one to waste words, Danse reached out and gathered Cutler’s shirt in his fist, pulling him closer. Their plush lips connected, and hands carded through Danse’s thick hair, tugging at it. Cutler didn’t have enough hair to grab, so Danse’s fingers played over the man’s jaw and down his neck, before cupping the back of his head.

A sudden cold jolt of sickening unease stuck Danse. Something was wrong.

Shaking, he pushed Cutler away. “We can’t do this here.”

“It may be our last chance,” Cutler argued, not so easily dissuaded, and pulled Danse’s entire bulk into his lap.

Agony pierced Danse’s heart like a knife. He twisted tight handfuls of Cutler’s shirt. “Why would you say that?”

“Because that’s what this was,” Cutler reminded, whispering in Danse’s ear. He slipped hands under Danse’s own shirt, short nails biting into his skin. “The last chance. The end.”

Pain raked down Danse’s back and he hit the dirt. Bullets tore chunks out the earthen ground on either side of him. A car was tipped ten yards away. He crawled on his belly, dragging himself though dirt until he reached it, taking meager shelter behind the vehicle as the afternoon sky in downtown D.C. gagged on dust and debris. Reaching behind him, he brushed a gloved hand across his back, testing the injury. The wound stung but didn’t bleed profusely. Just grazed then. Good – he’d deal with it later.

The reality of his situation came causing down. All his squadmates were dead, crumpled all around the mutant hive. Mutants prowled buildings on both sides of their alleyway home. He’d had to abandon his power armor when the blow from a sledgehammer caused the knee joint to lock. He was alone, injured and unshielded, with no chance of reinforcements.

Every shred of logic in his brain told him to retreat, to call the mission a loss and flee for his life. But, his heart… what to do about his heart?

“Little man hiding,” one of the mutants, liking a Primus, remarked from the second story of a building. “Bucket Head! Go get him.” The mutants erupted into cruel shrieking cackles.

Danse clutched at his laser pistol sidearm as something huge dropped down on his side of cover. One of the mutants had jumped from an upper level, landing just feet away. It roared, the great jaw cranking open, lips peeled back by the chains hooking into its incisors, distorting its face. A glint shone off a pair of metal tags dangling from a chain stretched tight around its stocky neck.

There were characters stamped into those tags. All Danse saw was _CU_ -

Then he lost his mind.

Danse began screaming a deep bellow that tore at his vocal chords. Bile rose, making his throat burn even worse. Clashing images of then and now battled for dominance. He had touched that thing when it was formerly human, whispered dirty encouragements, done the filthiest of things to it.

The abomination that used to be Cutler rushed at him, one meaty hand latching onto his neck. Momentum from the weight of its towering, warped body toppled it forward, knocking Danse onto his back. It straddled him, that huge hand crushing life from Danse’s body. Spots appeared in Danse’s vision. Dear God, was this how he died, dragged to his demise by someone – some _thing_ – that used to love him?

“Stop, stop, stop.” John’s smoky voice cut through Danse’s hazy awareness. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

The mutant rocked back and yanked Danse up, holding him so high that his feet kicked against open air. His hands closed around the monster’s thick wrist as he fought to pry its fingers off him.

Taller in a way that made no sense, John snaked ropy arms around Danse’s middle, pressing them together chest-to-back. He mouthed at Danse’s neck while he struggled. _Damn you, John_ , Danse tried to say though his crushed throat. _Not now._

The mutated Cutler surged forward. Danse flinched and jerked as it pressed flayed lips to his. He sobbed against the sensation, revolted by it, twisting and praying for escape. The pressure on his neck released and his feet found solid ground. He opened his eyes to find Cutler – _his_ Cuter – normal again, staring at him in concern.

“Danny, it’s your go,” Cutler said, gesturing to the chess board between them.

The pungent scent of salt air mingled with rust and mildew. They were in the cargo hold of Rivet City, the hull creaking on all sides, dangling bulbs swaying ever so slightly on their wires. Fog spilled down from the upper levels, breeching bulkheads and blotting out the rest of the ship. In this instant, it was just the three of them.

Though John pulled a third chair over to their gaming table, he didn’t play. He sulked instead, his long hair fluffed over his shoulders, scowling at the pieces. “I hate this game. Why do they all have to die?”

 “Acceptable losses,” Danse answered, taking hold of a black knight. He always played black.

“Like me?” asked Cutler, his attention on the game never wavering. His bishop took Danse’s knight.

“No!” said Danse, appalled. Devastating grief made him choke once more, playing tricks on him, making him forget where he was… or when.

John narrowed his eyes at the mounting pile of discarded chess pieces. “How many people have you killed?” he asked Danse. He looked so small in the presence of the two soldiers.

A montage scrolled through Danse’s memories, of slaughtering mutants and ghouls, the topography of his victims’ faces on display. Had some of those ghouls pleaded for their lives? He couldn’t remember.

“I don’t kill _people_ ,” he insisted.

Cutler and John shared a knowing glance, communicating some secret between them. The good soldier and the wild card. Pale John looked ghostly in comparison to Cutler’s dark complexion.

“You sure about that?” John yelled, his voice competing with the steady thrumming of propellers. He pointed at Danse’s uniform.

Strapped into the galley of a vertibird, Danse glanced down at his attire. The fabric was saturated, soaked through with Cutler’s mutated blood. It decorated his boots in streaks and droplets. He sagged in his seat, drained, the back of his head hitting the dividing wall between him and the engine.

He knew this ride. He was in the vertibird that extracted him from the hive, going back to the Citadel. Going back without his team. Without his partner.

John sat next to him, in Cutler’s usual seat. Danse preferred the window seat, ready to fire out the cabin door if need be. It wasn’t right that John sit there – he wasn’t Brotherhood, didn’t have the merit to take Cutler’s place.

“This is different!” he shouted to John over the noise in the galley. Wind rushed through one open door and out the other, tugging at their hair. “I would never hurt you!”

“You promise?”

“By God, I swear it!”

The ‘bird gave a might lurch, heaving to one side as one of the wings exploded. Something had struck it, a behemoth tossing cars or a lucky raider firing a missile launcher. This was new. Danse had never been in a damaged vetribird before. It tumbled through the sky head-over-tail, the Wasteland whirling by as it went. Smoke trailed its descent.

Being trapped in flaming vertibird was every soldier’s worst fear. Danse’s panicked gaze scoured the cockpit. Where was the lancer? Where was _John_? He was alone in a ‘bird going down.

A second explosion tore the vertibird in two. Danse fell as the craft disintegrated around him. He plunged through a ball of flame, spinning in open air. The murky colors of the Wasteland bled together as the ground rushed up to meet him.

He landed with a metallic-sounding _thump_ and opened his eyes. Sweat trickled down his temples as he forced air into his spasming lungs and fought to regain his bearings. The pounding of his heart caused his blood to make a _swishing_ sound in his ears. The cold floor grounded him, and his breathing steadied.

The Citadel’s Library solidified around him. Wide consoles filled with databank reels hummed, their snakelike power cords twisting along the floor. Terminals affixed to the walls and atop desks gave unhealthy green glows. Stacks and stacks of file cabinets lined the walls. The entirety of the Brotherhood’s history lay in this room.

As did Danse. He got to his feet and righted the metal chair he’d tipped, his muscles quivering in the aftermath. _Nightmares. More nightmares._ His simple fatigues were drenched in moisture. Served him right for falling asleep when he had work to do. Mortification flooded through him at the notion that anyone could have seen him asleep. He needed to set a constant example of Brotherhood discipline, no matter how draining his previous mission had been.

He resumed his seat and went back to writing his latest mission brief, complete with letters home to those he’d lost. Though irked by the inanity of this task, his pen continued to scratch brittle paper. It seemed terribly inefficient to write reports by hand when they could be typed and sent to other divisions, but such were the orders from the new elder, and it was not Danse’s place to question commands.

The Capital chapter’s new leader had been a scribe prior to his ascension to eldership, not even a field officer. With word coming down from the Commonwealth of a new threat calling themselves the Institute, the elder had panicked. Fearing a systemwide hack from this new menace, he had proposed the deletion of all digital files. His suggestion had been squashed flat by the Circle of Steel, as they had amassed too much data over too long a time to simply wipe it all from existence. It also raised addition concerns over a single fire or attack destroying their legacy. All elders, with the exception of the High Elder, answered to the Circle, and as a compromise all new reports were to be hand-written and logged by the senior scribes.

After a time, Danse finally dropped a fat folder into a bin and sighed, running a hand over his head. He was nearly bald, his hair buzzed to a short bristle due to recent exposure to a high dose of radiation. His persistent eyebrows grew back first, though his jaw remained free of stubble. His skin was blistered with beta-burn, his limbs patchy with lesions. Thank goodness that he’d kept John from seeing see him in this irradiated state. He wanted to see hunger and tenderness in John’s eyes, not revulsion.

Though they’d only met twice, the two of them had endured a rough summer.Following the cleansing of the Underworld, John’s wrath had been impressive. He had point-blank accused Danse of committing mass ghoul genocide, of slaughtering innocents who’d lived in peace for centuries. Though Danse was glad to be rid of the filth occupying one of the country’s most cherished museums, he assured John that he hadn’t been part of the assault. In fact, he had been helming a campaign far to the west at the time, assisting in delivering a toxin that would infect and kill all centaurs over time.

Tensions had cooled by their second visit, though Danse wasn’t entirely convinced that John believed him **,** leaving them in a tricky place. Danse never lied, even when John wished for kind fibs, wearing his honesty as a badge of honor. John had a soft heart and faith – not religious or idealistic faith, but faith in people, faith in their ability to rise to the occasion, faith that even those twisted by the ravages of radiation could still be productive members of a functioning society. He was a simpleton that way, but passionate, nonetheless. Besides, if John had been anything less than principled, their relationship would have been short-lived.

“There you are, Paladin.”

Turning, Danse found Sentinel Tristan approaching him. The balding man was out of armor and wearing the traditional flowing robes of a senior officer. Another survivor from the battle at Adam’s Air Force Base, Tristan had been promoted during the fight. Only one other officer held that esteem – Danse, himself.

“Sentinel, Sir.” Danse snapped to attention. It was late enough to be early morning, and he had immediate concern over activity at this hour. “What can I do for you?”

“With me,” Tristan commanded, not bothering to stop. He strode past Danse, leading the way into the Great Hall. The Citadel’s grand conference room was vacant, sporting empty chairs around a large _U_ -shaped table. Brotherhood flags hung on opposite sides of the room and each seat had a pad of paper before it, ready for occupants should a sudden meeting be called.

Once they were both inside, Tristan shut the door. As Danse stood at nervous attention, he realized that a sore on his neck was visible. Wanting to spare his superior the disappointment of seeing him in poor shape, he clapped a hand over it only to bounce right back to proper stance. Shame made his face blush red.

Watching him, Tristan snorted a laugh. “We’ve all coped a dose or two, Paladin. Nothing to be ashamed of. It’ll pass.”

Danse relaxed a smidgen. “Sentinel… is this about my Star?” Nearly ten weeks had passed since Danse submitted a request that his service be viewed. Four years as a paladin felt stagnant to him, and he was eager to progress up the chain of command. _Star Paladin Danse_ had an enticing ring to it.

“Yes and no,” Tristan answered. “Your submission was flagged.” He folded his arms, his steely blue eyes studying Danse. “Tell me… how’s your Latin, Paladin?”

“Um, passible, Sir.” It was hard for Danse to hide his confusion. He tried not to squirm under Tristan’s penetrating stare.

“You’ll need to remedy that.” Tristan took a moment before granted Danse a slight smile. “I know you’re after a Star, but have you ever considered the position of Elder?”

A wave of shock made Danse lightheaded. He had to sit down. He grabbed a chair and slid it under himself just in time. “I… I’d never entertained that as a possibility,” he stuttered.

The sentinel waited patiently, gathering his thoughts and pressing them into careful words. “There’s been a development in the Mojave chapter. Elder McNamara has been deposed. Given their… _ineffectiveness_ in the region, the Circle is considering a new direction. While there are local representatives well-suited to fill the eldership vacancy, headquarters in the West are assessing members in all detachments. I submitted your name for consideration. The High Elder thinks you’d make a fine attention to the Western force.”

“Why?” Simple as it was, that was the only question Danse’s brain was able of forming.

“You’ve been a model soldier, inspirational and dependable. While your work in the field is undeniable, you also sport key leadership skills that…”

Danse lost track of the conversation. The conference room was blurry, and sound threatened to fall away. This was impossible. He was only twenty-six years old, surely too young for such a mantle.

Dimly, he realized that Tristan had stopped talking. He had to say something, anything. “This is an… enormous responsibility.”

Tristan granted him a proud smile. “It’s everything you could ever want, Paladin.”

“Everything I could…?” Danse looked away. It seemed as if the room were swirling, instilling slight nausea. This was too much to process all at once. “May I have some time to think this through?”

A stern baring replaced Tristan’s previous ease. “This is a time sensitive decision.”

Danse gave a curt nod. “Understood. How soon do you need an answer?”

“Now, Paladin. There’s a docked veribird on stand-by.”

It was as if a cage sprung up around Danse. He felt trapped, and for a moment, couldn’t speak. Gooseflesh ran down his arms. Moving to the Mojave meant never seeing John again. He’d lose access to the Bravo connection, leaving him unable to send messages. No goodbye, no last words. He’d just vanish.

John would think he’d died in the field.

He almost shook, almost trembled at the guilt of letting John believe that. Especially now, when their relationship was so fragile. What kind of man would he be to let someone falsely grieve over him? It felt rude. It felt cruel. It sickened him.

“I… I feel it best I stay by Arthur Maxson’s side,” Danse said, forcing himself to his feet as he scrambled for an excuse. “He needs guidance, especially now.” Arthur Maxson had fallen in love with the Outcast’s point of view. Perhaps that was the teenager in him, identifying with a rebellious way of thinking. He was deviating from the teachings of Elder Lyons, his actions threatening to create a division among the ranks. “I really wouldn’t trust that obligation to anyone else. I need to remain here. I’m… I’m sorry to let you down, Sir.”

Tristan hummed through tight lips. “Well… I won’t hide that I’m disappointed, but I applaud your commitment to the boy.” He straightened and gave Danse a salute. “Semper Invicta, Paladin.”

A throb began, pulsing to life behind one eye. Wanting to wither in a ball and weep his humiliation, Danse saluted back, knocking a fist against his traitorous heart. “Semper Invicta, Sentinel.”


	7. Sins of the Father

NATE

Cambridge, MA

August 16th, 2288

The Commonwealth was eerily quiet as it butted up against sunrise, gripped in the full throes of paranoia, people hiding in their homes and out of sight.

During the night, John’s contacts had followed through, clearing the roads of mutants, blood-sucking insects and raiders. Soon enough, all would return, but for now the streets to Cambridge were safe, and Nate’s group didn’t have to waste a single round or stimpak.

MacCready caught up with them outside Lexington. Mayoral duties seemed agree with him. He stood taller, more self-assured, a few much-needed extra pounds clinging to his slight frame. He hailed them by waving his rifle in the air and scurried over. “I had to leave my balls with Fahrenheit for collateral,” he mentioned, one side of his face pinching in distaste. “She was pi… well, less than thrilled to have another mayor take off during an emergency.” He trotted ahead to keep an eye out for surprises.

John grumbled into his Jet inhaler and took another deep hit. His gold eyes looked dull and foggy.

In the course of one night, John had flushed his near-sobriety away. Not that Nate blamed him harshly. After he’d woken to find Nora’s cold body, he’d left a trail of vodka bottles from Sanctuary to the Prydwen. But he didn’t like this John. It reminded him too much of the trigger-happy Hancock he’d first met in Goodneighbor. Nate was thankful for his power armor, lest he say the wrong thing and get a knife in the gut for it, same as… Finn, was it? He made Piper, carrying a shotgun with explosive ammo, walk on his opposite side, putting himself between her and the stressed ghoul.

Picking the best armor for this mission had been essential, and Nate had felt awful for reclaiming the X-01 suit. This was the second set of armor he’d taken from Danse. Nate brandished his Gauss rifle and wore the suit’s coordinating helmet. He didn’t share Danse’s qualms over it, as he’d slept through the entirety of the Enclave’s reign.

Within the storage compartments on the armor, Nate carried Sturges’ relay control holotape and the fusion pulse charge, along with its detonator. The familiar weight on his right forearm was gone.

Nate hadn’t removed his Pip-Boy since his thaw, but when the _Hi, Honey_ holotape had jammed the night before, belching its analog tape out of the cassette, he’d ripped it off to salvage the recording. Moments later, the Pip-Boy vanished from his hands. Had he been wearing it, he would have been dragged down to the Institute as well. Perhaps he should have been, giving him ample time to approach his son and plead his case. 

None of his companions knew of his connection to the Director of the Institute. That information was his alone, partly because he couldn’t predict their reactions and party because he didn’t want to say it out loud. Denial was only the first stage of grief, one he hadn’t been able to move past. Though anger and bargaining were now unavoidable.

While John had calling in favors over Sanctuary’s radio, Nate spent the witching hours at a terminal, composing a message to the Castle, appealing to the Minutemen and the better angels of their nature. He told the truth of the situation, outing their new general as a synth in the process – though not by name, as the Brotherhood still tapped civilian lines. He’d entrusted the recording to Codsworth, telling him to play it on loop, and maintain an open communication line with Haylen, covering all bases.

Ronnie Shaw could push, gather together enough supporters and provide meager backup that Nate could relay in once inside the teleporter room of the Institute. They needed the support. The four of them could get into he Institute, Nate was sure of that, but if they had to fight their way through, he’d need the Minutemen. 

If – _when_ – they came back, he and Danse would deal with the future of the General role. Would the Minutemen trust their new leader if they knew he was a synth? A dangerous gamble. But they’d have to. To move forward in this world, it would be crucial. If not, maybe they weren’t that noble after all, and the Commonwealth was certain to fall apart. He had to trust that enough of them would make the right call and decide that all lives were worth saving. He _had_ to. Why else bother to save this world if he didn’t?

A few crows fluttered by the side of the road they traveled, cocking heads in their direction. _Are you watching me now, Son?_ Nate wondered bitterly, staring into the birds’ beady, infiltrating eyes. _Seeing what I’ll do? Recording it? Taking notes?_ He wished they’d been able to stop and rest but, with no time to waste on restless sleep, smokes and chems were driving them forward.

Nate gripped his Gauss tighter, careful not to crush it with his metal hands. He’d been ducking meetings with Allie Fillmore for weeks. He should have seen this coming, stopped it. And Sturges… had Shaun personally seen to placing Sturges in Sanctuary to keep close tabs on his father? The finest of strings holding Nate’s duplicity together were fraying. After this fight, every group he was a part of might disown him.

As they closed into the Cambridge area, the Charles River to one side, Piper tugged on his arm. “Blue,” she murmured into the receptors of his helmet. “You’ve gotta send him back.” She tipped her chin at John.

“What? Why?” Nate whispered back. “That’s not fair. I can’t keep him from trying to find Danse.” Nate would have murdered anyone that stood in the way of finding his family. It would be heartless to deny John the same opportunity.

“It’s... There’s… He’s got complications,” she stammered, eyes straying from his visor.

Inside his helmet, Nate frowned and studied the ghoul. John rolled an empty inhaler between his palms as he walked, a laser rifle bouncing against his back. With Curie gone, he’d likely stolen it from her supply cabinets. He wore an apathetic expression, his mouth closed, eyes dead. With sudden fury animating him, John reeled back and heaved the canister with all his might over the river. As it arced, the metal reflected swelling daybreak in a single flash before disappearing into the Charles.

What was Piper talking about? John’s chem-habit? That was old news. Besides, if they found themselves with their backs against a wall, it might help to have a chem-charged ghoul on their side.

“He’s going, Piper. End of discussion.”

Piper kept quiet but didn’t look pleased.

By the time morning was established, the four of them stood at the river bank directly south of Ticonderoga, looking down at the flooded entrance to the water tunnels that fed into the Institute.

“Well, here we are,” Piper muttered, her brow knotted beneath her cap. “We few.”

“We happy few,” John added, eyes sharpening.

“We band of brothers,” Nate concluded.

The three of them exchanged grim smiles.

“What the heck are you guys doing?” MacCready snapped, lowering himself down to the pipes. “Let’s go already.” He disappeared over the side.

The others followed suit, dropping the short distance into the river. Nate’s armor made a monumental splash that sent his companions jumping back. They hugged the bank where the water was only waist-deep, keeping their weapons dry. On instinct, Nate gave a military signal that they fall behind, letting him in his armor go first. They frowned at him in confusion, and he said, “Me first. This way.”

One by one, with Nate in the lead, they sloshed their way through a short tunnel until the pipe opened into a small, brick-lined cavern. A short set of stairs led out of the water and up to a larger, red-hued pipe that ran along the wall, up out of the water, the expense of it wider and taller than Nate was in his armor. Entry to it was blocked by a security door mounted into the brickwork.

Piper hummed to herself. “Well, that doesn’t look suspicious at all,” she mocked, stepping up to the gate and squeezing water from her coat.

Nate clomped over and joined her as MacCready and John cautiously eyed the cavern for surprises. He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the code Sturges had provided, and then tapped it into the keypad. The keypad flashed green and the door swung open. “So far, so good,” Nate tossed at Piper.

“You know you just jinxed us, right?” Piper said, smacking him in the X-01’s rounded shoulder. She immediately cursed and clutched her hand. Nate elbowed past her and into the pipe, gesturing that they join. They followed the duct, lit by blinking red emergency lights and patches of glowing fungus. The pipe eventually gave way to a water-logged tunnel that was mostly linear and crawling with ceiling-mounted laser turrets. Nate’s Gauss sent each one plopping into the muck in a hundred different pieces.

As they continued to wade through the runoff, clusters of radioactive barrels began appearing more and more frequently. The sensors in Nate’s helmet told of movement ahead too slow and jerky to be human or synth. He blocked the others from continuing. “Ferals ahead, and I’d rather not give our location away this early. We need to avoid a firefight.” He hated to ask, hated that he saw this as a viable option, but said, “John, can you go ahead and draw them out?”

The sigh John gave could have shaken the heavens. “Cause they’re magically gonna do what the ghoul wants?” he asked with a snide growl.

“Maybe,” said Piper, earning her a piercing glare from John. “You don’t know they won’t.”

The two of them stared at each other so long than MacCready broke in with, “I gotcha. Just put ‘em in my sights,” and set to work attaching a silencer to his rifle.

John grumped his way down the passageway, hands stuffed in his pockets. The muzzle of MacCready’s rifle trailed John’s movements, tracking him.

One by one, the ferals revealed themselves, shuffling through the tunnel-sludge and gathering in clumps, sidling up to John, turning earholes in his direction or tasting the air through open mouths, trying to figure him out.

Without his telltale red coat, Nate found it hard to tell him apart from the prowling ferals. The thought gave him a guilty punch in the gut.

John slid something into his mouth – a chem tablet, no doubt – and, slow as molasses, buried his bowie knife into feral heads, taking hold of their necks as he did so, easing one down into the water before moving on to the next. He carved a significant path through them before getting swamped by a trio of enormous bloated ones, glowing nearly too bright to look at. They pressed in on John, now waist-deep in water with no means of escape. He directed at steady glare at Nate and the others. _Little help here_ , he seemed to be staying.

Three successive pops ended the glowing ones, spraying John in syrupy feral blood as they went down, their great bodies sending waves down the tunnel. As MacCready picked off the rest of the ferals, John slicked gore from his leathers and gave the sniper a weary thumbs up.

Satisfied, Nate signaled it was time to press on. The four of them moved ahead single-file with Nate at the forefront, the layout of the tunnel changing as they went. Every so often, they spotted a water flow arrow imprinted on the pipe, and Nate made sure they followed it. The angle shifted and the water level dropped, the rushing sound of drainage valves filling the passage. Eventually, the red emergency lights give way to yellow work lights. Pitted cavern walls narrowed into a smooth steel tube decorated with electrical shafts, air ducts, transit pipes, and open holds blenching silvery steam clouds. 

Voices up ahead. Nate crouched, and hoped the others followed his lead. It was impossible to look over the hulking shoulders of the X-01 suit without turning. He made out the robotic tones of early-model synths behind a doorway in the tunnel. Watchmen perhaps, guarding the not-so-hidden entrance to the Institute.

Nate glanced further into the passage and saw several more doors lining the same wall, each about a dozen feet apart. Using the steam clouds as cover, Nate progressed forward, deliberately trying to keep objects stationed between them and the synths, condensation obscuring their presence. An alarm given too soon would cost them the entire mission. The second doorway lay just up the path. Nate twisted at the waist and signaled for the others to go around and sneak up on the synth sentinels from behind.

John gave a jerky shake of his head and burst out of formation. He rushed at the first door and slammed a shoulder into it, knocking it open. Standing partially shielded by the doorframe, he looked enraged and possessed as he fired into the room beyond, red beams of hot destruction spilling from his laser rifle.

Nate cursed and doubled back, hustling past openmouthed Piper and MacCready. He shoved past John and plodded into the first room, charging his Gauss. John wasn’t a precise shot – Nate recalled his preference for shotguns – and the laser beams had gone wild, giving the synths time to compensate. The sensors in his suit marked where two Gen-2s hid in a roomful of salvage hauled down from the surface. Nate’s Gauss made short work of the synths, blowing them to hell along with the bins of equipment they’d hidden behind.

Once the threat had been dealt with, Nate whirled and snagged John by the collar of his leather jacket. He slammed the ghoul up against a wall, the impact harder than he’d intended. “What the fuck was that?” he bellowed. “You almost ruined everything! Why?”

“I have to,” John rasped, squirming against Nate’s immovable hand. “I have to kill them! All of them! They have to pay for what –” he forced at Nate’s grasp, throwing his entire weight into fighting him “ – for what they’ve done! They can’t… they can’t…” John’s proclamations dissolved into gasps and wheezing.

Shock and concern flushed through Nate, and he was about to release John when the ghoul suddenly hissed a long yowl at him, his gold eyes violently brightening. One of John’s hands shot out and he raked down grooves into the helmet’s visor. The ghoul’s hands had become primal claws, battering at Nate’s helmet, trying to rip at his face. Nate’s old friend was unrecognizable, thrashing in his grip and snarling, all humanity lost.

Nate’s first instinct was the drop John and back off, but Anchorage and the Wasteland had taught him to never shy away from an attack. Instead, he used his armored body as a forcefield and leaned against John, pinning most of his writhing body against the wall.

Piper and MacCready edged in through the open door and stood shock-still at what they saw.

“Stay back!” Nate shouted at them over John’s high-pitched screeches. In this state, John was stronger than Nate ever thought possible, and could barely restrain him. If he wasn’t in power armor, he wouldn’t have been able to. He shifted, pinning John’s head against the wall by pressing a bulky forearm to his throat and leveling his Gauss at John’s torso. A sick feeling roiled in Nate’s belly. If he had to pull the trigger, God help him.

“Wait wait wait!” MacCready pleaded, a palm in the air as if trying to calm the scene. “It’ll pass! It’ll pass, I promise!”

Piper looked nervous, eyes wide, biting her lip, shouldering her shotgun.

Minutes ticked by, Nate wanting to trust MacCready as John continued to resist. Slowly though – so slowly – the ghoul’s movements became labored and the struggles turned to weak pushes until he went limp. John’s quick, sharp breaths relaxed into even patterns, and his eyes lost their ferocity.

Fading back into himself, John muttered, “Oh, damn,” his voice gruff by the crush of Nate’s hold on his throat. Nate took a small step back, fingers snagging in the white shirt beneath John’s jacket, still holding him at bay with the Gauss trained on him. John’s eyes regained a bit of focus. “This… this ain’t as bad as it looks,” he huffed, winded. “Though… not gonna lie. Guess it’s pretty damn bad.”

Convinced that the incident had passed, Nate him go, returning his weapon to the holster on his back. John staggered before sitting down on the floor of the salvage room with a dusty thump.

Thumbing for the release clasps, Nate ripped his helmet off and turned furious eyes on MacCready. “How long?” he hollered, helmet dangling from one hand. “How long has this been going on?”

The shorter man seemed to shrink a little further, and he tapped his neck with the barrel of his rifle. “Just… since you went into the Sea that first time,” he said in a meek voice.

John was turning. _Had_ been turning. For months and months and no one had told Nate a damn thing. Aghast at his friend’s level of deceit, he thundered, “Who else knows about this?”

“Um, Danse. And Curie,” said MacCready, scuffing a heel against the ground. “Danse wiped Codsworth’s memory of it.”

“Piper and Deacon, too,” John added from the ground.

Nate revolved on the spot, his eyes boring scalding holes into Piper.

She gave a feeble shrug. “Trade for an exclusive, Blue.”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kiddin–”

“It wasn’t this bad before!” she countered, regaining her stature. She stamped a foot. “And I… I tried to warn you! I did! Remember? That was me, trying to spare us from this.”

Nate closed his eyes, trying to keep his simmering temper from boiling over. He lived and breathed secrets, sustained himself on them. How much had he missed while fighting a war on four fronts? Danse’s isolation and need for direction after being identified as a synth, the Far Harbor episode, Shaun’s ultimate plan, and now John’s turning – he’d overlooked all of it and been unavailable to his friends. And to be honest, he didn’t have much of a position of control within any faction. He had the freedom to do as he wanted and come and go as he pleased, but that was where his status ended. His roles and ranks weren’t worth the lives of his friends, of his new family.

He opened his eyes to see John on his knees, his hands trailing over the floor to retrieve his dropped laser rifle. He clutched it to his chest like a child would a teddy bear, eyes bright again, but this time they looked wet. Nate shook his head, vaguely perplexed. Why would John select a weapon he knew was outside his capacity? And why on Earth would he bring it into what could be the biggest battle of their lives?   

Oh.

Nate abruptly understood.

The Brotherhood insignia on laser rifle’s barrel stood out plain as day. It wasn’t just any laser rifle – it was Danse’s, _Righteous Authority._ The same one Nate had refused to take outside ArcJet the year prior.

Nate recalled the raging hatred he’d been forced to live through after waking in 111. The reality of Nora’s death too fresh to properly comprehend, his wrath had spurred him on, made him bust his way through the ‘Wealth, given fire in the tireless pursuit of his child.

And at the beginning, he’d selfishly taken Nora’s wedding ring with him. There had been little else to remember her by. Nate hadn’t thought to place John in the same boat he’d been in, suddenly left with nothing, trying to keep away from that dark pit that yawned within, desperation prodding dumb ideas into existence, suicide a better option than living alone.

With care, Nate kneeled on the ground and placed a heavy hand on John’s shoulder. Shining eyes looked up at him from within that familiar craggy face. “Losing Danse… John, I get it. The desperation. The anger. I understand it. I’ve been there, lived it.” Nate’s fingers tightened slightly, and he brought his face closer. “I need to know that you’re good,” Nate implored, “that I can give you an order and trust you to follow it. Tell me. Tell me you’re good.”

There was a cold moment of stillness before John fixed Nate with an icy glare. The muscles in his jaw hardened. “I’m good. But Dan… he’s not dead. He ain’t fine, but he ain’t dead.”

They had no way to verify that, and Nate felt it kinder to not make a point of it.

“Are we okay?” said MacCready, a hand running over his rifle strap. “No friendly fire today?”

“No,” Nate agreed, standing. “Not today. Hopefully, never.”

Piper whistled a long, low tune. “Alright, then. Shall we?” Using her shotgun, she pointed over Nate’s shoulder.

Another one of the wide red pipes ran through the wall behind them, an arrow on it. _Follow the pipes_ , had been Sturges’ instructions. Nate briefly thought of turning back, of checking on the Minutemen, of running to Maxson or Desdemona to ask for help. But no. The answer didn’t lie with them. The only way to fix this was to get himself in front in Shaun and beg, plead, offer whatever he could to stave off this insanity. Too much time had already passed. No matter what, they may already be too late.

MacCready approached John and offered him a hand. He hauled John to his feet and the two of them clapped each other on the back.

Nate put his helmet back on, and immediately removed it. John’s slashes had not only compromised visibility through the visor, but also damaged sensors along the outside. He couldn’t risk a mistake due to it, not now. He sighed and dropped it to the floor, another relic for the salvage room. “Let’s get a move on. The Institute won’t wait for us.”

One by one, they entered the pipe. They hurried down the expanse of the tunnel system, the corridor illuminated by faint amber fluorescents, which whipped past them in glowing streaks in their rush. The pipe twisted and bent in unexpected places, occasionally angling up or down, causing them to either climb or stumble, depending on the grade. They slithered into smaller tunnel branching off from the main chamber. It curved and dipped before finally bottoming out. Then, the pipe ended.

As the other three stood ready with their weapons, Nate wrenched a hatch open, blue lights spilling into the tunnel. The Institute Relay Room stood before them, looking just as it had when Nate first discovered it. Clean white consoles gleamed in the soft lighting. The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol met his nose. Empty trash bins and polished terminal screens told of the care put into maintaining each area of the Institute.

 _Synth care_ , Nate reminded himself, recalling the sheer amount of synthetic people created for the solitary purpose of cleaning the facility. Slaves, all of them. He thought of Deacon, and half-expected the man to sneak up on them, armed with a zinger and a smile. He thought of Sturges, and those like him, that had no idea they were factory-made and must be hoping their abduction was all a bad dream.

“So, this is what the belly of the beast looks like?” Piper remarked, hand on her hip. “Sure is the cleanest place I’ve ever seen.”

“I know,” Nate agreed. “And it’s got that hospital smell.”

MacCready grunted. “Doesn’t smell like any hospital I’ve been to. Nothing says _Wasteland medical_ like the stench of decay.”

John just glanced around in distain, thinly-veiled ire on his ragged face. Nate gave him a supportive pat on the back as he clomped over to the main terminal. He freed Sturges’ relay targeting sequence holotape from its compartment in his armor.

“Okay, then,” said Nate. “I hope everybody crossed their fingers and toes.”

“The ones I’ve got,” John quipped, wandering over. “Whatchu do?”

“Went against your judgement and asked the Minutemen for backup. If I can boot this up, we might just have reinforcements set to join us.” Nate gestured beyond the console, to a circular room with tarnished white and aqua panels and rows of assorted sensors. In a matter of moments, an entire militia could be prepped to storm the main concourse.

John’s expression softened. “Good call.”

Nate held his breath and slid Sturges’ holotape into the terminal.

 _Relay targeting sequence activated,_ the screen read. _Downloading remote target area._

Nate clenched a fist in victory.

_Locking onto coordinates._

_Scanning…_

_Scanning…_

The process seemed to stretch into eternity. They all shuffled, waiting.

_Scanning…_

_Signal blocked. Relay sequence aborted._

They all looked at one another, stunned tension claimed their features.

“Um…” _Bypass_ , Nate typed. _Director override._ He tapped his code in.

 _Access code not recognized._ _Signal blocked. Relay sequence aborted._

For a few seconds, Nate didn’t move. He hovered over the keyboard, metal hands in midair.

When he didn’t show during the recall, Shaun must have pulled his passwords, thinking him a traitor. Without a way to cancel the Institute lockdown, no one would be beaming in or out. No Minutemen, no escaping synths, no survivors.

The four of them were on their own.

“Well, it looks like it’ll be just us after all,” Nate spilled. “So much for the best laid plans…”

“Seriously?” Piper exploded. “ _We’re_ the last hope for the Commonwealth? The shunned journalist, the ice cube, the kid mayor, and this feral mess?” she concluded, jabbing a finger at John. “You’ve got a better plan than this, right, Blue?”

“Uh… not one that you’ll like.” Throwing himself on the mercy of the Director suddenly seemed a farfetched idea. It had sounded better when he imagined a platoon of support at his back.

“Aw, man,” MacCready grumbled. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Looking at their long faces, Nate mustered up a courage he didn’t quite feel. “No two ways about this. We take the fight to them. I know this isn’t what you pictured, but we’re all there is, the last defense.”

“Naw, this is pretty much what I pictured,” John commented. “Suicide run. Taking them down with us.” His gulp undermined his bravado. “I can do that.”

“No,” Nate countered. “That’s not what’s going to happen. But you’ll have to listen to me and listen carefully. There’s another way. I can put off the inevitable. This doesn’t have to be a last stand. But you have to trust me. Can you do that? I need you to do that or we won’t get through this.”

Shaun was his. His and Nora’s. Not the Institute’s, not Kellogg’s. That beautiful baby with nothing but a bright future ahead of him was still somewhere in the depths of Father’s soul. And if it cost Nate his life, he’d find it. 

“Ain’t going back now,” said John, his golden eyes glimmering. “No way.”

“Still owe you, boss,” MacCready seconded, tossing him a sloppy Old World salute. “Besides, I’m not bringing my son all the way here just to live in a cesspool of megalomaniacal institutions. We stop this now.”

Piper frowned. “No point in arguing, I’m already outvoted. But I’m with you, Blue.” Her eyes glazed somewhat, and her face filled with wonder. “My God… I wanna see the Institute for myself, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Soaring pride took root in Nate’s chest. Though he probably didn’t deserve these friends, he loved them anyway.

“This way,” he directed, and led them through the tarnished door to Old Robotics.  


	8. A Study in Duplicity

DEACON

The Institute

August 16th, 2288

The service tunnels, while vacant, made Deacon uneasy. Surfaces, all the same three shades of white, shined like fresh snow. He had never been exposed to such a clean, even-lit and sprawling metropolis. It was unnatural.

“So, what’s your deal, kid?” he asked as they rounded a corner, Patriot in the lead. “Actively trying to piss off your folks?” Inactive laser turrets sat above each doorway they passed through, and a fire extinguisher mounted in each corner. Safety first.

“My mom’s dead, and my dad…” Patriot’s young face gave a wicked scowl. “Well, maybe my dad would pay more attention to me if _I_ were a synth.”

Clackity footfalls echoed down the corridor. Patriot came to such an abrupt stop that Deacon had to sidestep to avoid him. He raised a brow behind his shades. “Tunnel patrol,” Patriot whispered. “Damn. Thought they’d all be in the atrium.”

“How many?”

“Usually one or two.”

Deacon pried one of the extinguishers of its mount. “Sounds like good odds.” He hefted the heavy canister in his hands and shrank into a small junction where the wall and a doorway met. “Call ‘em over.”

Given how Patriot gulped and paled, it was a safe assumption that he’d never seen combat before. But he stood his ground and commanded, “You there! Come help me!”

“Yes, Sir,” droned an automated voice.

 _Good_ , thought Deacon, wedged out of the patrols’ sight. Not a courser. Things might not fall apart.

A single Gen-2 in a full set of field armor marched through the doorway and up to Patriot. A collapsible shock baton rode in a holster. “How may I assist?”

“Pretty much by dropping dead!” Deacon spouted. He swung the blunted bottom of the extinguisher at the armor gap between the synth’s helmet and its upper back, going straight for the rope of sensors that comprised its spinal column. The synth stumbled forward and into Patriot. In a swift move, Patriot flipped it over and used his entire body to pin it to the floor. “Get the helmet off!” Deacon ordered, jumping forward to stand over the Gen-2’s head.

“Please, release me, Sir,” it calmly said to Patriot as the kid tugged the field helmet away. “Your life may be in jeopardy.”

With its smooth plastic face exposed, the Gen-2 looked like a piece of art, a thoughtful sculpture on human composition, hauntingly realistic if not for the seams that ran along the edges.

Using all his strength, Deacon brought the flat end of the extinguisher down on the face, smashing it. He did it over and over again until the synth’s head was a mass of crushed plastic, jagged metal and popping wires. Never once did it try to force Patriot away.

Patriot stared at the synth’s wreckage as Deacon nudged him aside. “You… you killed it,” he whispered, scrambling away.

“Did I?” He couldn’t be certain one way or another. Decades of Railroad affiliations caused hot guilt to writhe within Deacon’s gut. He wasn’t Glory – he didn’t share the notion that early model synths were equal to modern versions. But meeting Nick Valentine had blurred that notion a little too heavily, leaving room for uncomfortable doubt.

He stuffed those feelings into the _Not Gonna Think About It_ portion of his brain and began to strip field armor from the synth’s body. “Is there a maintenance closet or storage room nearby?”

Patriot gave a single shiver and then snapped back to reality. “Yes. Just up ahead.”

“Good,” said Deacon, pulling the maintenance uniform off and fixing the armor over his everyday clothes. It wasn’t a perfect disguise. Glimpses of peach-toned skin between the armor pieces, his hands and sneakers would give him away if anyone bothered to look his way more than once. But his synth impersonation had worked during the Bunker Hill crisis, proving that it was close enough. He tested the shock baton – it unfolded and blue sparks shot from the tip. He flicked the retract button, and it collapsed for easy carrying. After returning the weapon to its holster, he bent over the Gen-2, and grabbed a leg. “Help me with this.”

Patriot approached with tentative steps and took the synth’s other leg. Together, they dragged it down the tunnel, trailing a smear of coolant, and then stuffed it inside of a closet packed with cleaning supplies.

There was a terminal at the end of the tunnel, the main arena of the Institute on the other side of the door. “Can you search for individual synths on this thing?” Deacon asked through his helmet.

“Sure,” said Patriot sliding up to the monitor. “Who do you want to look for?”

“Search for an M7-97.”

 _Subject found. Synth Retention Bureau,_ the screen read.

Good. They were on the right track, then. There was a bit of info below, listing Danse as a _field unit_ – interesting – and stating both his recall and reactivation codes. Deacon groaned when he saw them. Seriously? Guess the institute really loved overstated satire.

“Search for a G5-19.”

_Subject found. Galley._

Okay. Deacon nodded to himself. Second stop would be Curie.

But how big was this? The concourse couldn’t contain every synth to ever come off the assembly line.  

“Hmm. Search for… A3-21.”

_Subject not found. Location unknown._

Deacon whistled an uplifting tune. Good. Bishop was still safe in Rivet City. And if it the entire Commonwealth went to shit, the Railroad could still function from the Capital.  

His relief was cut short when Patriot hummed at the terminal and frowned, still clicking keys. “Looks like all the transporters are locked. No way anyone’s relaying out.”

“How do _you_ get synths out? You don’t use the relay, right?”

Patriot shook his head. “Then there’d be an equipment use record. I use a bunch of old tunnels that lead through Bioscience. We could bring batches of synths through there if the section was cleared.”

“Feel like we’d need a distraction for that. A good one.”

Patriot pinched his face up in thought. A spark lit and he snapped his fingers. “The gorillas!” he said with excitement.

“The go-who-ahs?” That sounded like some primal made-up word.

“Don’t worry about it. Bioscience is my department. I can build a commotion big enough to pull some heat out of SRB for you. But… you’d have to go in alone.”

“Sounds good to me.” Alone was how Deacon worked best. No one to worry about, and no one to get in the way.

“Okay.” Patriot blew out a long, steadying breath. “Here we go.” He stepped up to the door leading out and it slid open. They were back in the central area, the fresh smell of lush leaves reaching Deacon’s nose. High above the trees, he could see that towering, winding elevator stretch several stories high.

As they walked slow and calm around a loop of walkway, Deacon stuck to Patriot’s side, looking to the world as if he were the kid’s personal guard. On the landing outside Bioscience, they parted. “After this, get out while you can,” advised Deacon. “See you on the surface. And if anybody asks – your Geiger counter is in the shop.”

Patriot looked confused, but only for a moment. He nodded and disappeared through the door, leaving Deacon on his own once more.

He did an about-face. SRB was on the other side of the atrium, and he had a tense hike through enemy territory to get there. He strolled down the steps to the concourse, his teeth grinding so hard his jaw hurt. The Institute was a pen of glass and steel, picture-book pretty, but with a sterile, soulless undertone. He wove through the rows of holding tubes, that crop of synths, his heart hammering, ready to be called out. Workers were going one-by-one, lowering each tube into the very ground and putting each synth inside into a stand-by mode.

After a few harrowing minutes, he found himself staring up at the _Synth Retention Bureau_ sign. He shifted back and forth a little, working up the nerve to walk in as if he belonged there, no problem, no reason to be alarmed.

He took half a step forward as the door slid open and Mayor McDonough was tossed out by a courser and a balding scientist. Deacon snapped into stationary attention, a gargoyle in plastic armor keeping a lookout from the landing.

McDonough stumbled before righting himself. He whirled on the scientist, sneering, “Don’t you know how important I am? I deserve to be at the forefront! Just give me an upgrade, or a… an enhancement or something!”

“It doesn’t work like that, M7-62,” the scientist retorted. “Report to your assigned position and await orders.”

“Hmph!” McDonagh yanked on the hem of his suit jacket. “You haven’t heard the last of me! I’ll… I’ll lodge a complaint! You’ll see! When the Director hears how I’ve been treated, I swear –”

The scientist tossed his head at the courser, and it stalked forward snagging McDonough’s arm. It pulled him down the hallway and out of sight as the scientist went back inside.

The instant they were gone, Deacon clapped hands to the sides of his helmet.

_OH!_

_OH, SHIT._

Piper would shit a brick. She’d been right all along. Mayor McDonough may have been the best infiltrating synth Deacon had even seen, using rumor to his advantage, drumming up terror in the wake of direct accusations. What a masterful study in duplicity. Heck, Deacon wanted in on that class.  

Shaking the surprise off like water, Deacon steadied himself and strode through the doorway. He was met by a short hallway with glass walls. Through the glass to one side, a bank of monitors showed streaming images from around the Commonwealth. The other side held shelf after shelf of Institute-brand weaponry and a row of lockers guarded by a coated courser. A rolling cart sat at the courser’s side, topped off with that big sledgehammer John brought back from Far Harbor.

Two steps in, he saw a woman in a lab coat rush by, disappearing as she descended a set of stairs. He stiffened once again.

He knew her.

Well, _knew_ _of_ her.

Doctor… Leigh? Lee? Li. Yup. Dr. Li, from Rivet City. She’d been on Bishop’s boat, one of his charges and a thorn in his ass before cozying up to the Brotherhood of Steel. Deacon would spot her every so often when retrieving Bishop for an op. He remembered her twisted hairdo and chronic sneer, even recalled a particular fit she’d thrown in the ship’s marketplace over the state of imported Capital produce. Wow, what a social climber to end up here. Guess Brotherhood science didn’t hold much of a candle to what the Institute offered.

“Careful!” Li commanded, her sharp tone amplified by empty walls and steel equipment. “We’ve been waiting for this one for quite some time.”

Deacon circled around an observation mezzanine, chasing her voice. Taking another defensive-looking stance, his gaze slid to the open theater below. There was little else to call it – the area below resembled an operating room, like the kinds found in hospitals, with several, terrifying differences. More tubes holding synths lined the room, but those inside were stagnant, still standing but vacant-eyed and limp, put on pause by their recall codes.

In the center was Danse, still strapped to the backboard and atop a gurney. Two Gen-2s had a grasp on either side of the board. Beyond Danse, the bald scientist from earlier was connecting wires to something that kinda looked like the seating inside a memory lounger. But whoever sat in that was going to get the worst back massage of their life. A series of sharp probes ran all the way up the center with some particularly wicked-looking ones by the headrest. 

Li, seeming way older than Deacon remembered, leaned over Danse and patted his frozen face with something akin to intimacy. “I’m certain that this unit has done a masterful job,” she said. “I remember it being quite… ambitious.”

“Couldn’t have come in at a better time,” baldy cut in. “Once we take the surface, the information it contains will be essential in tackling the Brotherhood.”

Deacon started to sweat in his armor. _C’mon, Patriot. Get the lead out and do whatever it is you’re doing._

“You get it yet?” Li asked, glancing at the man with the same sour face Deacon remembered from Rivet City.

Another moment passed before he answered, “Yes. The Syphon’s now on automatic relay. It’ll get sent up to wherever we make base camp. We can crank out copies at whatever pace we see fit.”

“Good,” Li said, although she didn’t seem much happier. “Once the relay is back up, I’ll tell you where to send it. But first–” she moved towards the machine and motioned at the Gen-2s “–prepare M7-97 for decommission. Dr. Ayo, move please.”

 _Hey, Patriot_. Deacon sent harsh thoughts to whenever the kid was. _You’re missing your cue._

The Gen-2s lifted Danse’s board off the gurney. The Syphon’s sharp probes were teeth ready to sink deep into Danse’s synthetic flesh. Whatever procedure was about to go down, Deacon was certain that the former paladin wouldn’t survive it.

Somewhere near the lofty ceiling, lights began flashing yellow and red. A piercing alarm sounded, accompanied by, “ _Security breach in Bioscience_. _All available coursers respond,”_ droned a pre-recorded voice over an intercom system. _“All personnel please report to safe zones.”_

A rustle from across the way and the sweep of a black coat announced the SRB’s courser responding to the call. The Gen-2s put Danse back on the gurney. “Ma’am,” said one. “Sir,” said the another. “Allow me to escort you.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Li sneered as the unit took her arm and began guiding her up the stairs. The other did the same to Ayo. The alarm kept on playing. “Fine,” she acquiesced, being taken out of SRB. She spotted Deacon in his armor and twisted around. “You! Stay here and keep guard.”

Deep in his role, Deacon remained mute and still.

Seconds later, he was alone in the Retention Bureau. Well, him and a dozen deactivated synths. He broke into a run, hurling around a corner and taking the stairs down two at a time. He rushed past the rows of lifeless synths and made straight for Danse.

Danse’s eyes were still open. Deacon freed the clasps that strapped him down. Not wanting Danse to go full on murder-machine for no reason, Deacon pried his helmet off, revealing his identity. Contending with the alarm, he leaned in and raised his voice. “Reactivation Code Phrase –” Ugh, did he really have to say it? “– Macabre.”  

Danse reanimated, gasping like he’d been fished out of a river, life flooding back into his face. His hand shot out and grabbed Deacon around the bicep.

“Whoa, whoa, big guy!” Deacon yelped as Danse’s iron grip caused a fracture to run up the armguard. “Friend!” he shouted over the alarm. “Me save you. Grateful, yes?”

Danse eyes darted in quick movements before he let go and sat up. He flinched under the shrill whine of the alarm. “Where am I?” he rumbled, a studious gaze drinking up his surroundings.

“Uh. Okay, quick story. We’re in the Institute. You and me and all Boston-adjacent synths.” The armguard was toast, cracked to the point where it wouldn’t even stay on. Deacon pealed it off and then jammed the helmet back on. “Escaping sounds good and I think you’ll agree.” He headed back up the stairs. That damned alarm was giving him a headache, but it meant they still had time.

Danse fell in line as Deacon entered the armory. “I’m not sure what horrors you rescued me from, but, yes, I am grateful.”

“You would have done the same for me,” Deacon said, knowing that was probably a lie. He opened one of the lockers and hoped for a replacement armguard. Instead, he found a thickly-padded black coat. He turned to Danse and held out the apparel he found. “Here. A present.”

The rotten expression Danse used to get when looking at Valentine crawled across his face. “Surely, you must be joking.”

“What’d I say about calling me Shirley?” Deacon shook the courser coat by the shoulders. “Suit up. Your motivation is _emotionally-stunted robot_. C’mon. I believe in you.”

Danse’s loathing was epic as he took the coat and rigidly stuck his arms through the sleeves. Once doing the clasps up to his throat, he retrieved the sledgehammer and banged the end of the handle on the floor like a gavel, making his displeasure clear.

The combination of the coat the hammer was too much, making Danse look like some passé comic book character. Deacon jammed his helmet on to hide his amusement and looted a weapon. “Gotta go get something first, though,” he said, checking the rounds on a plastic Institute pistol.

“Curie?” asked Danse.

“Curie,” Deacon admitted, inserting a new fusion cell into the magazine. _Pockets. Why didn’t synth armor have pockets?_ Deacon would have to get by without additional munitions. Still had the baton, though.

The alarm cut out so abruptly it made Deacon disoriented. _“Security breech contained,”_ the voice came back over the loudspeakers. _“Please return to your designated duties.”_

Deacon shook his head to clear it. “Gotta go.”

“I’ll follow your lead,” said Danse.

Oh, would he now? Deacon was tickled pink to finally – FINALLY – have some degree of control over M7-97’s safety. He’d led plenty of synths through their trials and out of harm’s way. Although, well, not quite like this.

They hustled through the door and around the outer walkway as those stationed in the concourse got back to work. Danse kept his chin down but walked with calm discipline. By the grace of some deity Deacon was unfamiliar with, no one intervened. Then again, it took someone with balls the size of barrels to look a courser in the eye.

Deacon deposited Danse back at the service entrance and told him to get inside. “Sit. Stay. I’ll be back.” With Danse hidden, it was time to pick up his girl. Deacon had this now and walked easily across the concourse towards the galley.

The galley was a stark white mess hall with all the tables removed. Rows of tubes with caged synths took up the interior. A single scientist was at work, typing onto a pad as he gave verbal commands to one of the synths. In the next tube over was Curie, barefoot and dressed in her pink-and-yellow striped pajama separates.

The Institute was clearly stretched too thin, too many scientists and not enough backup. That, or hubris was making them cocky. Deacon switched from the pistol to the shock baton. “Pardon me,” he said, coming up behind the scientist. “This isn’t the synth you’re looking for.”

When the man turned in surprise, Deacon clapped a hand over his mouth and stunned him with the baton. The man’s body jolted and convulsed before dropping. Deacon dragged the man behind the raised serving area and out of sight. Somebody was gonna find a trail of hidden bodies later.

He picked up the fallen pad and inspected it. There was a flashing triangle at the top of the screen, which sure as hell looked like an arrow. Testing a theory, Deacon pointed the pad at Curie’s tube and pressed the button. The tube lowered into a ground leaving an anxious Curie in its wake.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Deacon, “but this is no place for a lady. There’s science and power tools and the strong possibility of violence. You’d really be better off at home. Preferably in a kitchen, with, ya know, bulletproof windows.”

Curie shied away from his appearance before standing straight. “Deacon! It is you under there, correct?”

Good girl for remembering the combination of field armor and his voice. He gave her the ol’ Vault Boy thumbs up. “Shiv-free is the way to be. Thanks for not stabbing me this time.” He slipped her the maintenance uniform from before. “Here,” he said.

“Where were you keeping that?” she asked, eyeing it with suspicion.

“You don’t wanna know. Get changed.”

He kept an eye out while she dressed. Once done, she stole the scientist’s shoes. They weren’t much of a fit, but the guy was small, and it was close enough. He gave her the pistol, which she concealed. They walked back towards the service tunnel, just a nerd and her guard, taking a stroll, Curie holding the pad in her hands like a shield. The zigzagged a little, avoiding direct contact with those doing reprogramming at the tubes.

“Mon dieu!” Curie cried and pulled away from Deacon’s side. He had little choice but to chase her. As he caught up to her, he understood her actions.

In one of the main concourse’s tubes stood Sturges, his arms folding across his broad chest, one brow raised, calmly taking in the sights. He must have been up late working since he was fully dressed in his coveralls, tool belt, and welding googles. _Huh,_ Deacon pondered. _Just when you think you know a guy._

A pair of scientists were nearby, flanked by three Gen-1s. “Pardon,” Curie said to them before Deacon could stop her. She pointed at Sturges. “I am in need of this specimen.” She stared at the pad in her hand for a moment before hitting the triangle button. The tube rolled down and she and Sturges locked eyes. “Come with me,” she said, putting deliberate emphasis on each syllable.

Sturges’ slight frown was brief. “Okie, dokie.”

The scientists looked at each other and shrugged. Clearly, the Institute didn’t do company bowling nights, and those in other departments – or random synths in disguise – remained strangers.

“Come, come,” Curie told Deacon, and the three of them made their way through the main area and into the internal walkways.

The instant they stepped inside the service tunnel, Curie sagged against a wall in relief. “Goodness,” she said, putting a hand over her chest. “My heart! It is racing!”

Deacon wiggled the helmet off – Sturges snapped his fingers in an _I knew it_ kind of way – and whistled, the sound echoing through the tunnel. Danse appeared at a junction down the hall and came to join them. Curie and Sturges both jostled at his courser-appearance before recognizing him.

“So, uh, hey,” said Sturges, rubbing the back of his neck. “Somebody mind tellin’ me why I’m here?”

Best to rip the bandage off. “Oh, yeah. Looks like you’re a synth.” Deacon shrugged. “Happens to the best of us.”

Danse balanced the sledgehammer over his shoulder and, in a stunning sentimental move, put a comforting hand on Sturges’ shoulder. Sturges fell quiet, staring thought the floor. “Well, hey,” he said after a minute. “Looks like Dwight Sturges ain’t a real person.” He paused for a moment and then gave a light-hearted shrug. “I can deal with that.” He glanced between the others. “What now?”

It took a second for Deacon to find words. Sturges had just given the fastest acceptance of his identity that Deacon had ever seen. “We had a buddy on the inside,” he finally said. “Set up an escape route for you. I’ll lead you there.”

Danse narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean _for us_? You say that like you’re staying.”

“That’s ‘cause I am.” Deacon was careful not to look at Curie. “I’ve got to clear the synths. As many as I can. That’s my job, and more importantly, it’s what I have to do.”

Danse gave a sincere nod. “I understand.” Sturges shoved his hands into his deep pockets and seemed to share Danse’s opinion.

Curie latched onto his arm. “Non, non. I will stay, as well. I can assist.” Her face was bright with conviction.

He peeled her hand away, that sick feeling of guilt worming through him. “No. Please. I can’t watch you…”

Red hair.

The noose.

Another dead synth.

He swallowed. “I see things how things are, faults and all, not how I’d want ‘em to be. You spend less time disappointed if you never prop anything up on a pedestal to begin with.” Without the support of the heavies, the Railroad couldn’t help, even if he could get word to them. It was just him now. His battle, his atonement. “I’ll be okay,” he lied, easy as breathing. “But first, I gotta get you guys out.”

Fixer’s map appeared in his brain. He led through the winding tunnels toward the exit past Bioscience, toward some ancient section called Old Robotics.


	9. The Right Thing to Do

JOHN

The Institute

August 16th, 2288

Carrying Danse’s old laser rifle around an old, forgotten part of the Institute probably wasn’t the best plan. John missed his trusty knife. And his shotgun. Holy hell, what a year to have lost them both. On top of that, Danse had poofed out with his hammer. But the idea of using some random weapon at the end of this stung. It should be personal. It _was_ personal. He had to get the gun back in Danse’s hands, to let him fight to the death if need be with something he trusted, something that had always had his back.

They’d left the sleekness of the Institute relay room behind, delving instead into a labyrinth of darkened, emergency-lit hallways and broken consoles. Concrete tunnels with narrow staircases paired claustrophobia with the impending sense of danger. Uneasy and on edge, John reached for another orange Mentat to steady himself. His senses heightened, his eyes moved in short, calculating jerks, probing defense and fall back positions. Though John lacked the training bestowed on Nate and programmed into Danse, he had a cunning ruthlessness that served him well. Men like the two of them clung to honor. Respectable enough, but John wouldn’t turn down a cheap trick or crazy maneuver if the opportunity presented itself. He’d ransacked Curie’s chem collection just in case he needed a boost to combat whatever the Institute threw at him.

Judging by the strained silence, the others shared John’s agitation. Careful footsteps avoided detritus littering an observation deck overlooking a large room heaped with discarded equipment. On one side, open maws gaped where glass windows had been, shards crunching underfoot. On the other, half-open cubicles ran the length of the wall. Old, dark stains marred the floor.

Their foursome traipsed by one of those vacant window frames and triggered the fast beeping of a turret system. Without a word, they split up, diving for cover. Piper ducked behind a desk as John pressed himself behind a tall filing cabinet. Pale blue energy beams drilled into the surrounding console banks, carbonizing the components.

The turrets clicked, searching for targets as a mechanized voice traveled from around a bend. “Motion detected. Curious.”

 _Fuck._ Synth patrol.

Over the potent stench over burning chemicals, MacCready and Nate took ranged shots at the turrets, Nate partially shielding the sniper with his grand armor. From the level below came a deep, chugging sound accompanied by the grinding of treads. “Hostiles detected.” Sentry bot. Now it really was a party.

John dared a glance around the cabinet. From his perspective, he could see a terminal just slightly down the corridor. From its placement near to a window, it likely contained controls for the automated systems. If John was fast and used Nate’s bulk as cover, he could make it. But the synth – or synths – were just beyond, likely coming fast.

“Piper!” John shouted as he jabbed a finger down the hall. “Pulse grenade!”

Crouched behind the desk, Piper’s eyes sharpened, and she reached into a pocket, drawing a sleek grenade. She depressed the trigger and, rather than throw it, she sent it sliding along the floor. Two Gen-2 synths with pistols drawn rounded the corner as it detonated in a blast of disabling blue energy. The synths spasmed and fell, lifeless, looking like polymer junk tossed to the ground.

“Holy flying fudgeballs!” MacCready yelped. John swung his gaze in the kid’s direction. Looking rattled by the nearby explosion, MacCready had dropped out of the window, sitting on the floor as Nate combated the turrets and the sentry bot. Blue and red beams of light were flying everywhere in the big room. An almost musical tone rose in volume, the sound of intense energy being focused. An assaultron had joined the fray, somewhere in the room below.

“Mac!” Nate barked, his teeth bared, Gauss at his shoulder. “Support!”

“Grenades!” John yelled. He waved at Piper, motioning that she join MacCready’s position. “Make it goddamn rain!”

Piper and MacCready locked eyes, then she scooted over to him. Nate dropped down long enough to unload a collection of grenades from the storage compartments of his suit before rising to pinpoint the assaultron.

As Piper and MacCready chucked grenades at the level below, John rose and ran to the terminal. Thank God for the Mentats. He guessed the password on the second try, gained entry to the defense system, and deactivated the turrets.

“Shit, it’s cloaked!” Nate growled. “Keep alert! Focusing on the sentry bot!” His Gauss thundered deep booms.

A clacking sound from where the synths had emerged drew John’s attention. He peered around the bend to see descending staircase. The air shimmered in the stairwell, and he whipped his head back. “Found it!” he cried out, scrambling backwards, moving slower than normal. He cursed at himself. The hyper focus of the Mentats were making it tough to adjust to new variables.

MacCready and Nate were so engaged with the sentry bot that they didn’t even hear him, but Piper slid closer and dropped to one knee, pumping her shotgun. “John, move!”

He dove to one side as she fired at the juncture. An explosive shotgun was no joke. The hall filled with flames, pellets, and red-hot chunks of metal. The assautron’s stealth field dissipated and what was left of it fell to the ground feet away from John. It was down but not out. Piper’s blast had disintegrated its legs, but it hauled itself forward with surprising speed using just its clawed pinchers. Popping wires trailed behind it. The thing launched itself at Piper, its claws clamping down on her thigh as she screamed. It dragged her closer, its optics glowing with what would be a fatal blast.

With his leathers smoking, John leapt onto its back, nestling the muzzle of Righteous Authority at the base of its head. He fired over and over, the rifle bucking in his hands. The red glow dimmed, and the assaultron’s head fell forward. A massive fireball told of the sentry bot’s destruction, and a rush of heat spilled in through the window frames.

John dropped the gun and tugged the strap until it was at his back. He hustled to Piper’s side as MacCready and Nate turned attention to her. The assaultron’s _death_ hadn’t caused it to release her, and the claws were still deep in the meat of her thigh. Blood was pooling where she sat, mingling with the other stains on the floor. They weren’t the first to be stopped in this hall.

“Hold on,” Nate said, taking a knee at her side as she cursed and whimpered. He placed his armored hands over the claws. “Stims at the ready.” MacCready pulled two from a pouch strapped to his leg. Piper reached for John’s hand and clasped it tight. “One. Two.”

Nate didn’t wait for three. Piper screamed in pain and he wrenched the prongs apart. John slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her away from them. She groaned as MacCready jabbed her with the stims through her torn pants – one to close her wounds, the second to stave off infection. “Oh, c’mon,” she whined. “I keep getting holes in my clothes. I’m not made’a caps.”

“You can preach that, sister,” MacCready agreed, capping and discarding the needles. He stood back up to survey the damage beyond the window, reloading his rifle with care.

She sighed and sagged against John. “Thanks,” she murmured into his shoulder.

John shrugged and rubbed her arm. “Think we had an equal exchange of ass-saving.”

She peered at him from under her cap and said, “I’m sorry about… you know.”

“No point in feelin’ bad now. Can’t change it.” Forgiveness was hard, and it didn’t matter much if they weren’t going to make it out. Still, it was nice to hear her apologize. Although he and Piper had never been close, they’d known each other for a long time, and both shared the same distaste in Diamond City politics. She’d even, from afar, seen him happy and human.

“You gonna be alright?” asked Nate. He got to his feet, throwing his enormous shadow over them.

“I just had a two-hit of stimpaks,” said Piper. She scrunched her eyes closed and ground the heel of her palm between them. “Once my brain shakes off the shock, yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“So, uh, what are the odds that this gave us away?” MacCready asked, waving out the window with the barrel of his rifle, gesturing down where the sentry bot smoldered.

A corner of Nate’s mouth turned down. “The Institute is callous, but arrogant. If something isn’t currently relevant, they tend to forget it. This section probably hasn’t been monitored in years. Automation for defense –” he pointed back at the synths “– and robotic bodydumpers.”

“Still, pretty damned efficient,” John said, rising. He gave Piper a tug to her feet.

“I’ll second that,” said MacCready. He stepped away from the window. “Where to next?”

“Down here,” answered Nate, his wide feet crushing the synth bodies as he rounded the corner. The others followed, trailing him down a tight set of stairs and through an adjacent hallway with a hatch on the floor at the end of it. One by one, they dropped through the portal and found themselves in another tunnel.

After hours upon hours of tunnel-crawling, this passageway looked different. Reminiscent of the relay room, the corridor walls were gleaming and white, and that too-clean smell was back. Bright florescent lighting made John feel exposed, like a specimen – or a prisoner – being examined. Nate jerked his head, leading onwards. They all clutched at their weapons, holding them at the ready. John thought about taking a preliminary hit of Psycho, but the chance of turning fight-rage on his teammates wasn’t worth the risk. He took another Mentat though, just to stay sharp.

A door slid out of its angular frame and revealed rows of planters filled with succulent foliage. The lights were different here, diffused, and the air rich with moisture. John was tempted to give an awed whistle but stifled it before it could come out. MacCready paused for half a moment to squeeze lush leaves between his fingers as Piper looked about through marveling eyes.

John hadn’t really considered the lives of the people living here. That something as simple as farming took place came as a shock. He wasn’t sure why – the Institute had clearly been self-sufficient for some time – but he hadn’t thought of them experiencing the same daily monotony as those on the surface, trying to feed themselves, providing basic needs, and raising families. It was easy to think of the entire Institute as a hive of evil scientists all plotting humanity’s downfall. Was malevolence ingrained in those that grew up here? Maybe they resembled pre-war scientists, blissfully building their bombs in ignorance, not realizing that they were heralding the end.      

It was a simple assumption that those in the Institute were slavers. And if there was anything John hated, it was bullies and those in power lording over those that served them. Of course synths were people. Duh. Just because someone didn’t fully resemble a traditional human being didn’t make them any less deserving of a free and full life. Maybe after they found Danse and the others, they’d be able to flush the facility of all cognitive synths. Though that seemed a tall order.

Nate turned and opened his mouth–

An alarm began wailing, its screech punctuated by a droning voice. “ _Security breach in Bioscience. All available coursers respond. All personnel please report to safe zones_.”

The soft lighting in the room shifted to violent flashes of yellow and red. Another wall of windows stretched out to one side, though all of these had intact glass. There was movement on the other side, people running across a vast chamber. As Nate squeezed out of view the other three dropped below eye-level, scattering amongst the planters. Panicked yelling accompanied the blaring alarm, along with the angry sounds of large animals.  

“Oh, this is fine,” MacCready quipped for his hunkered position. “I mean, we’ve all fought at least one deathclaw, right?”

“Confusion could work in our favor,” shouted Nate, contending with the alarm blare. He sidled over to a door at the far side of the greenhouse. “They called in coursers. Looks like we’re in for a fight.”

“Hell, yes. That’s what we came for,” John stated with a grin. Shedding courser blood was a nice segue to the full-blown retribution he was owed. 

“I’ve had enough for one day,” Piper griped. She primed her shotgun. “But I don’t ever get what I want.”

“Wait for my orders!” Nate commanded. He stood before the door, triggering the motion-release. It slid away and Nate wedged his huge armor through the frame, charging into the room with the ruckus. His Gauss fired a few shots. “Civilians are clear!” he called. “Come in weapons hot!”

It was always strange to hear Nate slide back into his Army-speak. Odder still to think that there were civilians within the Institute. John and the others filed out to find themselves in a sprawling room with towering white walls teaming with more greenery. Dividers a whole story tall split the room, levels of plants decorating it in rows four-feet above one another. Workstations with lab equipment circled the entire space. One far wall was some type of lush enclosure, a solid mass of green open to the rest of the room.

Two enormous gray-furred lumps were heaped on the otherwise pristine floor, the motionless bodies reaching chest-height. “What the heck were those?” MacCready spat, gawking at the downed beasts.

“Gorillas made by the scientists,” Nate answered, watching the entranceway across the facility. His Gauss was up. The alarms, coupled with the flashing lights, overwhelmed John’s Mentat-high, heightening his agitation. He kept his finger close to the laser’s trigger.

“Why would they make these things?” asked Piper, sounding repulsed.

“Because they could,” said Nate. “Get ready.”

The entry door opened, and six coursers ran in. Nate dropped two before they had a chance to respond. MacCready took out a third and the blast from Piper’s shotgun made the others scatter. Blue energy beams shot back in response. John countered by winging a few of them with red beams, making their black coats sizzle and smoke, keep them pinned.

Piper yelped and fell. She hauled herself back into the greenhouse room, taking herself out of the fight. Nate pushed, his armor absorbing the courser’s fire. John stayed in his shadow, sending hot energy rounds at anything that moved. MacCready had disappeared.

One of the coursers sprinted from behind a workstation, firing as it went. It dove for scant cover behind one of the gorilla’s bodies. John sent a volley of shots that way, beams drilling into the animal’s carcass. The stench of burnt fur and ozone filled the air. Deafening .308 pops meant that MacCready was still active, providing cover fire.

John broke off from Nate’s wall of armor, chasing his prey. He skidded around the gorilla’s side, swinging his rifle in an arc to catch the courser. The courser’s coat trailed as it ran around to the creature’s other side, keeping the body between them. It was fast, faster than John in his inebriated state. It tackled John around the legs, taking him down hard. The impact knocked the rifle from his hands. John hardened panic into sharp focus, and he pulled his knife. He hooked an arm around the courser’s neck, bringing it close. He shoved the knife through the zipper of the thick coat, jamming it up into the synth’s gut.

It stared at John for a moment, blinking green eyes. John called upon his reserved ghoul-strength and used the pause to saw the knife upwards, opening a significant hole in the synth’s stomach. He scrambled free as it pried its coat open. It looked confused, glancing down at the ropes of intestine – really fucking lifelike entrails – slipping free from its abdomen. John cupped its head and brought his knee to its face. He pushed the body to the floor, ending the skirmish.

That synth had been a person, yeah, but he’d killed plenty of people before. Coursers had bunches in common with dogged zealots John had met in the past. Folks from the Brotherhood sprang to mind.

The alarm had become the only sound in the room.

“You good?” Nate called from the other side of the lab.

“Good!” MacCready answered from someplace elevated.

“Swell,” added John, wiping his knife on the courser’s coat before sheathing it.

The alarm came to a sudden end. _“Security breech contained. Please return to your designated duties.”_

“Am I done being shot at?” Piper called out from the greenhouse doorway. John saw her discard a used stimpak. The wave of coursers was over, but the workers would be coming back.

A rustling of plants made John turn his head. MacCready climbed down from one of the dividers. Kid had used the foliage to climb up one of the walls like he was friggin’ Grognak. “We done here?” MacCready asked, hopping to the ground.

“Looks like,” said Nate. “Let’s keep moving.”

The entryway door opened, and another courser walked into the room. It was flanked by a Gen-2 guard and few other people, but John couldn’t focus on them.The courser wore Danse’s face.

John swayed in place, nearly losing his composure entirely. He sucked in a breath and trained his laser rifle right at the courser’s head. Danse was gone, deleted. M7-97 stood before him, dressed in courser wear, reprogrammed. He’d always known he’d be too late to save Danse, but he hadn’t planned on meeting M7-97 as a foe. John had come to end things, to ensure Danse’s knowledge and physical self wouldn’t be turned against the world.

He fired.

The courser swung a sledgehammer – John’s hammer – and connected with the blast, letting the hammer’s head absorb the blow. Nate and MacCready followed suit, sending rounds flying at the newcomers. The courser spun, bringing an armored-coat arm up to shield itself. The Gen-2 stepped in front of one of the others and was sent flying back, armor absorbing bullets.

“Monsieurs and mademoiselle!” one of the people cried, rushing to the writhing Gen-2’s side.

Was that Curie?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold it!” MacCready yelled, and the firing stopped.

Someone else stepped out from behind the courser. “Heya, boss,” said Sturges, waving to Nate.

Despite the clicks of safeties echoing behind him, John didn’t lower his rifle. He kept it trained on the courser. “What did they say to you?” John snarled in a sharp voice.

“What? Who?” asked M7-97. It almost fooled John, wearing Danse’s blatant confused face. “John, lower your weapon.”

“Them!” John barked, fear hurling through him. He didn’t know what was going on around him. The synth in front of him was the sole focus of his Mentat-intensity. “What did they say to you? What orders? What protocols did they update?”

M7-97 cautiously set the sledgehammer down on its head and approached with hands up. “We don’t have time for this,” it said. “I wasn’t reprogrammed. This is me. You know I wouldn’t risk your lives unless I was sure.”

John gave a rapid shake of his head. “Can’t take that risk.” A tremor wormed its way through his entire body. He kept at the courser at arms-length, backing up the neared it came. “I came to make sure you were dead. That they didn’t send a different version of you back to the surface.” Tears threatened. This was unfair, just fucking unfair. The synth was mocking him, toying with him, saying all the right things. Righteous Authority’s barrel shook, and he held it tighter, shouting, “No one gets as many chances as we have! No one! This ain’t you! It can’t be! It’ll never be you again!” He prepped the first shot from the laser to tunnel straight through M7-97’s synth component. The second would blow out the back of his own head. He was ready for that, but fuck, he wished he’d taken a calming dose of Jet first.   

M7-97 pressed in, its brown eyes cloudy with pained empathy. “John… I’m here.” The synth swallowed, its eyes filling with remorse. “But, if you believe otherwise, I understand. If you can’t live with the uncertainty of my allegiance, then you should destroy this unit. I wouldn’t blame you. It would be…” It paused to take a deep breath. “It would be the right thing to do.”

It stood there, letting John wrestle with indecision. Holding fast to the remnants of his Mentat high, he let his senses drift, trying to connect to any hint of Danse’s manufactured soul. To say that Danse had been no more that a robot from the start was like saying the Earth held nothing but dirt and dust. Danse had been flesh and blood, dreams and doubt, and had cared more for humanity than most people born ever did. He was John’s chosen family and if John couldn’t walk out of here with Danse intact, he didn’t want to walk out at all.

Near to the doorway, the Gen-2 coughed and ripped off its helmet, revealing Deacon’s cocky face. “Jeez, if that’s how you greet friends it’s a wonder how you have any.” Curie continued to fuss over him, but he batted her away and struggled to right himself. A section of fiberglass shielding was missing, and he clutched a bleeding arm.

No way would Deacon let a compromised synth join him and the others without being sure. John choked on a gasp and let the gun drop. Air rushed from his lungs and a heavy weight fell away. He felt untethered, dizzy, floating off into some abyss. His head dipped low and Danse swept him into an awkward embrace. John buried his face into the hollow of Danse’s neck and his shoulders lurched with a single, inaudible sob.

There was no clichéd kiss, no grand statements uttered. There wasn’t time for sentiment, though John craved it more than chems. They roughly pressed their cheeks together before parting. John held out Righteous Authority, and Danse offered Righteous Judgement. They exchanged weapons. To hell with suicide. They were making it out of this together.

A hiss and clank made them turn their heads. Nate climbed out the back of the X-01 armor. He clapped it on the shoulder and smiled at Danse, his vault suit radiant under the Institute’s bright lighting. “I believe this is yours,” he said. “Time to move out.”


	10. Happiness

DANSE

New Carthage, Pennsylvania

April 3rd, 2282

It was always preferable to start the day with at least one, small accomplishment.

Danse knocked out a session of chin-ups in the doorway, strong fingertips gripping the doorframe, while John continued to sleep. After two nights in the open, they’d arrived at New Carthage and taken shelter in an old bank. The lock on the front door had been rusted, but Danse was proficient enough to repair it, allowing for a secure place to make camp. Sunlight shone in from the grimy windows in the front, warming Danse’s back. He watched his shadow bob up and down over John’s resting mass. John grimaced against the flashes of darkness and light and rolled over, pulling their blanket over his eyes. “You’re missing the point of _time off_ ,” he muttered.

“There’s never a good excuse to become idle,” Danse contested, smoothly hauling himself up.

John gave another grumbled complaint and tossed the blanket off. He stretched and lit a morning cigarette. Normally a habit that Danse would contest, he’d been allowing John leeway for his addictions as an apology of sorts for being inflexible. Dropping from the doorway, Danse switched to push-ups, his holotags dangling out of his undershirt. John made a show of stepping over him and wandered over the front. After a moment, Danse heard him huff a laugh, and halted his routine to glance over his shoulder.

Smiling to himself and blowing faint smoke rings, John was tracing a heart around a _J + D_ rubbed into the soot covering a window pane. Danse snorted. “You’re such a child.” Though he shook his head, he gave a light smile.

Danse found it nice – relieving actually – that John still showered him with affection. After the incident with Underworld, John had been withdrawn, barely speaking, answering only with biting comments. Something had shifted though, and during their last few visits he had surprised Danse by doubling down on the amount of emotion he expressed. It was odd, but not unwelcomed. It had been exhausting to tiptoe around John, afraid to say the wrong thing and send their relationship crashing down. He was grateful, especially considering the amount of concessions he’d made to stay based in the Capital. Passing on the promotion still stung, the ache like an old wound slow to heal.

A rumble shook the building, causing dust motes to float down from the ceiling. Grinding and whirring passed from one side of the front windows to the other, solid, indistinct shapes moving with them. John tugged a sleeve over his hand and rubbed at the glass until he could see out. “Ha!” he exclaimed, eyes lighting up with excitement. “Looks like it’s starting! Wanna head down?” He looked beautiful, standing in gentle sunlight, his long blonde hair a halo of gold.

Sweet joy bloomed in Danse’s chest and he pushed himself to his feet. “In a bit,” he said. He marched over to John and looked down into his shining hazel eyes. Without a word, Danse ducked low and warped his arms around John’s middle. He easily threw the smaller man over one shoulder and carried him back into the reception area where they’d slept. John laughed and kicked in mock protest until Danse deposited him atop their bedding. They tussled a bit before John wrapped legs around him and initiated a kiss. Then, they didn’t speak for quite some time.

When they finally emerged out into the street it was midday. John’s hand was in his and it felt almost daring, especially given the way they were dressed. John wore a mesh shirt, metal pauldrons on his shoulders, and leather pants laced up the sides. A pair of goggles pushed his hair out of his face, and he’d smudged black greasepaint around his eyes. A plasma rifle was strapped to his back, and small bones were threaded throughout his hair. Danse had fashioned himself a headpiece from a yao guai skull, comfortably shielding his face. His apparel was more conservative than John’s – a combination of both leather and metal armor pieces detailed with loops of chain that snaked around his legs. His assault rifle hung at his side.

The costumes had been at John’s instance. “They go all out,” he’d said. “You wanna fit in, right?” And Danse certainly did want to. The chance to attend such an event was paramount for someone from the Brotherhood, and if it meant looking the fool that was a blow he could take.

And they certainly weren’t alone. Groups of people traveled the same path they were on, some looking as if they’d come from the Pitt, some sporting Legionary gear, but all dressed in an extravagant manner with various armors, bones, leather and skins. The dusty streets had clearly once been humble roadways. Wooden structures topped old brick buildings, shoddy in design and barely defensible, capped with pennants. The city was new, built over the flat remains of a place called Glenn Mills. Deep tracks ran through the road, the dirt depressed by a dozen different sets of treads. Clouds of white vapor and the growl of machinery rose a short distance away.

Excitement gave Danse butterflies, and a shiver ran down his spine. How lucky was he to know John who, in turn, knew of all the interesting events in the region? Truly, wealth did come with certain privileges. And when it didn’t, John’s charisma and ill-reputed connections made up for the rest.

They crested a hill overlooking a winding trail to a demolished farmstead. The path leading up to the ranch was brown, all plants shriveled by lingering nuclear destruction. The entirely of the farm was ringed by tall stacks of tires, preventing onlookers from seeing inside. A rusty bus was lodged at an angle in a break in the wall, people filing in through the open side door. The rod iron sign above the bus read in letters five-feet tall, _World Expo 82_.

Dealing with new, strange groups of people wasn’t Danse’s forte. He looked to John for reassurance, who winked and led the way down to the faire. It was a short wait to get into the bus, but after John paid their entry, they filed through. Once exiting the back door, they found themselves in a place unlike Danse had even seen.

A writhing sea of bodies milled about within the ring of tires. Danse had never seen so many people in one place and stood rooted to the spot, enthralled. There were no faction banners to be seen. Everyone here was anonymous. The people were clustered around all type of machines – land vehicles such as buggies, buses, trucks, a boat rigged on wheels, a mechanical sloth with seats on top of it and things Danse couldn’t begin to place.

John took his hand again and pulled him onwards. As they got deeper into the throng, he spotted a small cistern with hoses running out of it. A full-bosomed woman poured pint glasses full of a murky brew from its tap. John snagged one and they shared it. It was beer, but different from anything Danse had drank before. It was carbonated, not the flat liquid he was used to, had a slight sweetness and tasted faintly of those snack cakes he liked. They walked as they traded sips, taking in racks of outlandish weapons too big to carry manually.

In the afternoon, all those ragged-looking vehicles were wheeled to a track, the mass gathering in rickety, slapdash stands. Courtesy of the beer, Danse felt much more relaxed now in the presence of strangers. The whole assembly – Danse included – let out a cheer as they began to move on their own accord, powered by electricity and steam, some outpacing others in a glorious display of ingenuity. Riders swung pieces of cloth in the air, waving to their fans. Men gambled in the crowd, as did John, trading heavy sacks of caps, betting on the fastest or longest-lasting vehicles.

One by one, each automotive puttered out, until the winner was a slow-moving truck whose connected wheels resembled those of a train and was powered by a huge vat of heated water sitting in the bed. Steam had won the race. How marvelously unexpected. There were boos in the crowd and the gamblers made their displeasure known. John laughed and collected his earnings.

Everything at the exhibition was piecemeal and tarnished and absolutely amazing. Nothing was for sale, and Danse supposed that wasn’t the point. This was a celebration of humanity rebuilding itself the only way it could, through entrepreneurial leaps and daring innovations. What made this even more incredible was the distinct lack of overseeing organizations. All items were owned and designed by a single person or a family, John had explained, sometimes with the aid of a benefactor who collected a portion of the event’s entry fees. Danse never asked how the McDonough’s had amassed their fortune, but all the intimate knowledge and networks John had regarding travel made sense if transport technology was part of his heritage. Bringing Danse here must be like letting him in on the family secret.

That’s why Danse felt a guilty twinge over the desire to impound all property immediately and send for a fleet of scribes to evaluate his findings. It was hard, harder than he’d expected, to refrain. As much as he enjoyed himself, and John’s company, the deep-seated duty he felt to report these contraptions warred within him. Technically, if Danse wanted to rationalize it, this was old tech in play, not new. Everything had a frontier quality to it, nothing ground-breaking. Yet, the threat of what all this could lead to concerned him.

He was certain John hadn’t meant to upset him by inviting him to come. John knew that Danse reveled in the wonders of the past, of a world neither of them ever knew. Danse was a hard man to have good times with. Even Cutler had enjoyed teasing him over that fact, and he appreciated John’s effort. It was such a struggle to meet John’s needs while caring for his own. A year ago – hell, six months – Danse would have put his foot down in refusal of attending such a gathering. Trying to appease John had begun to take up much of their time together.

The bonfires started before the sun had fully set. With the track now empty, it provided a hub for the evening festivities. Music began to swell, strings and strange brass instruments and the thunderous drumbeats. The fairgoers descended into a wild, formless dance throng. Danse stood as far off as he could without losing sight of John. He was tall enough to see over most of the crowd unfettered, watching John dance in the center of the mob, making a show of himself. Men and women hidden by masks and garish headpieces surrounded around him, grabbing him as a dance partner, shaking his hand, clapping him on the back, going out of their way to touch him. It was clear that John was a local celebrity, someone with deep roots in the Expo.

Nightfall deepened to a black backdrop strewn with starlight. As John kept partying, Danse busied himself with drinking and willing himself to be invisible. This trip had become more of John’s scene and not his. He would prefer to be back in the bank, cooking for the two of them and reading history books together. His was more inebriated than he liked, uncomfortable in his own skin and intimidated by the laugher and joyous screams of the attendees.

He was considering leaving when John broke through the crowd and slipped up to Danse. He wore a wide, bright smile, his chest heaving from exertion. “Dance with me!”  he yelled over the music.

“I can’t hear you,” Danse lied, tapping at his ear.

John held out his hand, beckoning.

Danse shook his head, his yao guai headpiece rattling. This was John’s world, the peoples’ world, and not his. John clapped a hand over his heart and puffed his lips in a pout. He shimmied backwards, sucked back into the crowd, allotting Danse his space.

Watching John dance with women was less painful than watching him with men, but both genders took turns with him. John was the center of attention, reveling in it. His charisma was off the charts, and Danse understood how easy it was to be drawn to him. Perhaps he was simply another being caught in John’s orbit.

It was obvious that John would be just fine without his involvement, that Danse could disappear entirely and impact very little change. The numbness that came with that thought surprised Danse, and he did his best to stifle the disquiet in his soul. Would John even notice his absence? He drank to maintain a calm exterior, though bubbles of resentment stirred to life in his gut.

Danse’s Star still hadn’t come through, no doubt due to disappointing his superiors by refusing to take the Mojave. He’d stayed on the East Coast for a man that didn’t need him and would, quite honestly, flourish without his presence. Danse sighed and tossed back the rest of his beer. None of the bitterness he felt was John’s fault. The man was ignorant of the damage done to Danse’s career. Danse hadn’t told him of it, seeking to avoid John feeling as if he owed something. Omission was favorable to an outright lie and upsetting John, particularly after what had happened at Underworld, wasn’t a risk Danse was willing to take. It pained Danse to be so proud of his accomplishments and to have the one person that meant the most to him care nothing of it.

It was nearly midnight by the time they left. The revelry hadn’t died down, but John seemed to pick up on Danse’s withdrawn mood and blessedly suggested they go. On the walk back to the bank, John fell behind, handing out caps to clusters of homeless drifters come to beg the Expo’s attendees for handouts. Danse removed his headpiece and frowned, thinking John’s behavior an encouragement of poor life choices.

“Paladin?”

He sobered instantly. A chill raced through him and he almost dropped the skull. He clenched his jaw and turned. A Brotherhood patrol trio weaved through an alleyway between two brick buildings to approach him. In the dark, it was hard to tell if their jumpsuits were olive or black. Danse recognized the young woman in the lead. The bulky silhouettes of the other two soldiers gave them away as scribes. “Knight Portillo. I was… what are you doing here?”

She grinned, looking him up and down. “Here for a bit of recreational recon, are you?” Danse recalled his apparel and blushed, hoping she didn’t notice. “So are we,” she continued. “Well, minus the recreation. Got word about unknown tech being used in the area. Know anything about that?”

As if Danse couldn’t felt more on the spot, he heard footsteps and glanced behind him. “You good?” John asked, approaching with an edge in his voice.

“Who’s your, um… friend?” Portillo asked.

At the sight of John’s provocative attire, Danse’s stomach clenched. “No one,” he insisted. “Just some drifter.”

John glared before folding in on himself, his scant body becoming even smaller as his posture deflated. He turned on his heel and left, stomping down the dirt road. Thank God. Relief flooded Danse’s system.

“I was scouting the area, yes,” said Danse, facing the squad. “I wasn’t impressed with anything I found, though. Seems like the locals are easily enthralled by the simplest of mechanics.”

“Huh,” Portillo milled thoughtfully. “Still. We’ll check it out. We’ve got a job to do, y’know?”

Danse bobbed a nod. “Of course.” Would the Brotherhood take the Expo by force? They certainly could if they wanted to. “I look forward to reading your report.”

“I’d be honored to have your input on it, Sir.” Her hand moved to her chest. “Semper… er, I mean, Ad Victorium,” she saluted with their faction’s new idiom.

He returned the gesture and graciously escaped. When he didn’t find John at the bank, he backtracked, ditching the skull and keeping an ear out. The chains around his legs rattled as he jogged through town. A street over and a block down, Danse spotted a cluster of stringy, dirty drifters circled around a table on the porch of an old restaurant. It was easy to spot John’s wavy hair among them. A lantern burned at the center of the table, throwing sinister shadows over the faces of those seated near it. Danse coughed and leaned over the wooden railing, reaching to tap him on the shoulder. “Um, John?”

“What?” John growled. He was hunched, injecting a double-barreled syringe filled with a substance the color of fever blossoms. A peeling piece of tape over the chem read SlAsHeR in faded ink.

Danse was stunned. He’d never seen John touch a hypodermic, though he’d seen the track marks on his arms when they’d met. “You’re using again?”

“Yeah,” John bit. “And?”

A terrible feeling crept through Danse. “I… we should go.”

John didn’t answer, just plucked at the length of tubing tied around his arm. The drifters began sniggering to themselves.

“John. Please.”

After an exaggerated sigh, John got up and dumped the remainder of his caps on the table. The drifters clawed at it as he ducked under the railing and joined Danse, shoving hands in his pockets. As they headed back to the bank, Danse gave himself a firm lashing. “This was careless,” he said. “The location was too close to the Capital. And now I’ve been identified. How could I be so stupid?”

“I don’t fuckin’ care who sees us,” John said, scowling at the ground.

“Of course, you wouldn’t,” Danse retorted. “You don’t suffer the slightest consequence from your actions.”

John stopped cold, falling behind. “Who am I to you?” he asked in a lifeless tone.

Exhausted, Danse turned to face him. “What does that even mean?”

“Who am I?” John asked again, his voice sharper this time. “Your boyfriend, your lover, an inconsistent fuck, some guy who doesn’t know better?”

“Why does that matter?”

“ _Who am I_?” John screamed, daring to garner attention. His hands clutched at the mesh fabric of his shirt. “You treat me like shit, like nobody, like you don’t even care! Stop being so goddamn scared of what might happen! Fuck! I am trying so hard and you won’t even meet me halfway!”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Though I doubt you even care,” Danse countered, John’s popularity at the Expo spurring hot jealousy marked with hurt.

“Oh, yeah, you’re here,” John scoffed. “But you ain’t _here_ ,” he said jabbing at his temple. “And you ain’t _here_ ,” he added, thumping his heart. “I’m trying to give you everything I’ve got, but that ain’t good enough. Is everything you tell me shit? You say you love me. You say you wish we had more time together. And you pretend like I’m some damned stranger.”

Danse’s mouth hung open for a moment before he could say, “Is that about the recon team? None of that was about you. I’ve told you what happens to people like me in the Brotherhood! You might live in a society where anything goes, but I don’t.”

“They’re the only obstacle there is for us,” John pointed out. “For you and me. You get that, right? Ain’t enough room in that closet for both you and that armor you wear.”

“I will not have this conversation. Don’t ask me to choose.” Danse stood his ground, ready to defend the Brotherhood to the grave.

“Oh, I’m well fucking aware of you choosing to murder populations over me any day. You’ve been real damn clear about that.” John spat on the ground and whirled, taking off down a side street.

Danse tore after him, blood boiling in his ears. “Is this still about Underworld? I have nothing to confess, and I will not spend my life apologizing for following orders!”

A large rubbish bin blocked the alley’s exit, and John reeled, staring Danse down. His eyes were wild and furious. “I’m in this, too! You do not get to call every single shot! It’s always your job and your rules and your boundaries! You put the Bigothood first and I don’t believe a word you say about them!”

“Say it. _Me_ ,” Danse dared, stepping closer. “You don’t believe me.”

“You’re damn right I don’t believe you!”

“Good God, John, what do you want!” Danse roared, a ferocity building inside. “I include you in my life to the best of my ability, and you want to tarnish everything I’ve worked for!” Hot fury spilled over. He shoved at John hard, slamming him against the bin.

The impact was too rough; John ground his teeth, a punched-out noise of pain leaving him. Danse backed away, anger giving way to shocked guilt. “John, I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, horrified at himself. “I would never intentionally hurt you.”

John reached over his back to rub at a shoulder blade. “Bullshit,” he snapped. “All we do is hurt each other.”

“I don’t… want to agree with that.”

“But you do.”

“I… yes.”

They stood in silence with starlight falling over them, digesting the implications of what they’d both said. John’s stunning face distorted in despair. “Fuck. Dan… There’s this crack between us – this _fucking chasm_ – and it just keeps gettin’ bigger. What’re we gonna do?”

For one shameful moment, Danse imagined how easy his life would be without John. Like a gun going off, he realized he wasn’t happy anymore. It crushed him, but he knew when a fight was lost. Muddling through this relationship with John left Danse eternally frustrated, like he was always one misplaced word or action away for disaster. His body took on a heaviness and strength fled. He couldn’t look John in the face, so he looked to the stars. A lump formed in his throat.  

“Dan?” John sounded as shaky as Danse felt. “Talk to me.”

Danse looked down to see John standing absolutely still, the fear in his eyes made brighter by the smudges of greasepaint that rimmed them. Danse faked a smile and opened his arms. John cautiously neared and stepped into his embrace. He clutched at Danse’s sides, holding on tight.

Happiness had never been a driving factor in Danse’s life, and he’d be damned to walk away from anything. He could push through this. He could keep going and stay in this for John, as _his_ happiness was far more important than Danse’s. He crushed John to his chest to hide the tears rolling down his scarred face. “I’m sorry,” he repeated into John’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My nod to Wasteland Weekend.


	11. No Good Men

NATE

The Institute

August 17th, 2288

Nate’s army had little time to assemble but judging by the determined fire in their eyes – he had to guess with Deacon – they were fully present and raring to go. “Alright, team. New plan,” he said, stirred by their gumption. “Deacon, get to the directorate meeting room. The Institute records everything topside. Pull what you can off the terminals there.”

Deacon flashed a thumbs-up. “I know where that is. See? Top of my class.” Always ready to make light of a bad situation, his indomitable spirit was easy to admire. Nate had reluctantly come to view Deacon as an older, less-responsible brother – the one that he’d never had, or particularly even wanted.

“I shall accompany Monsieur Deacon,” said Curie as she cocked her pistol. Her adorable face morphed into an expression of grim resolve. She gave a quick glance around Bioscience. “But first, I must request to download the advancement in this section. Information on crop improvements and hydroponics would be immensely beneficial for the entire Commonwealth.”

“Agreed,” said Nate. They needed records of what the Institute had accomplished in health, agriculture and tech. Losing everything the Institute had amassed would be tragic. Curie rushed to a workstation, pulling drawers open until she found a collection of holotapes. She began downloading files. “And Piper,” Nate continued. “We’ll need the progress made by Advanced Systems. It’s to the right. Mac, cover her and clear the area. Once done, keep your heads down. We’ll reconvene there and head to the reactor.”

“Got it, boss,” said MacCready, standing taller like he was puffing himself full of nerve.

“Danse,” Nate continued, “you’ll probably want to head to Robotics. Next section to the left. If there’s record of your construction, it’ll be there.” He owed Danse the chance to try and find the truth about himself. Danse jerked a nod and looked to John, who hefted the sledgehammer over a shoulder. “And take care of that suit!” said Nate. The fusion charge and its detonator were still in its armored compartments.

He was given a wry side-eye. “It’s a foolish assumption that I wouldn’t,” Danse chastised.

Nate turned to the others. “I’ll be paying a visit to the Director. Sturges, with me.”

They readied their weapons, opened the door, and stepped out into the concourse. Nate took a split second to analyze the scene. It must be past midnight. The atrium was crowded with repurposed synths still in their tubes and all manner of synthetic patrols weaving between them. Nate spotted very few humans. The rest had likely retired for the evening. The Institute was too confident and lax, unhurriedly playing the long game, reliant on synth slaves to pick up their slack.

At the sound of the Bioscience door sliding open, several guards looked their way. As expected, Danse fired the first shot. He charged forward and drilled a second enemy in the head before the first one dropped. Danse was glorious, in his element and fearless, even setting a few trees ablaze with his rifle fire as he drew attention. ArcJet sprang to Nate’s mind, of watching some strange, scruffy man in armor fight off a full horde of skeletal synths all on his own.

In the momentary confusion, Nate lost sight of Deacon and Curie as they darted off. The synth forces returned fire, pistols and rifles spitting blue energy at them. A group of early models exploded, consumed in a fireball from Piper’s explosive shotgun. The humans scattered, and Nate prayed they’d stay out of the fight. No such luck. Some suicidal scientist aimed a stout white rifle at MacCready, but the sniper beat him to the shot. The first human casualty spun and fell.

Nate grabbed Sturges by the arm. “Stick close!” Gauss in hand, he made a mad dash to the side, sprinting to one of the residential stairwells. That shrieking alarm sounded once more, but as Nate ran up the looping staircase with Sturges at his heels, he tuned it out. A few familiar faces peered out of the apartments as Nate rushed past. He had to ignore them and their stunned expressions.

He and Sturges tore through one of the glass tubes that served as an elevated walkway between sectors and dove into a private elevator tucked into the back of the next section. Nate slammed a palm down on the red control button and the clear door slid closed. The elevator ride was smooth and swift, not rusty and unreliable like ones on the surface that ran the risk of being trapped between floors. A chime _binged_ , and the lift stopped, door opening for them.

The alarms sounded very far away, as if the speakers for this section had been disabled in advance. A tinny voice drifted down the stark hallway, echoing of the past. “ _Hi, Honey_ ,” Nora’s sweet voice said. Nate’s stomach dropped. He knew the rest of the message by heart.

They passed a little boy behind glass, staring placidly at them. Not a little boy, Nate reminded himself, clenching a fist in disgusted anger. An ambivalent, robotic stranger. Yet another test created to analyze his responses.

“Hey, boss,” said Sturges. “There’s a kid in th–”

“It’s not a kid,” Nate responded, a thin layer of ice coating his voice. Sturges held his tongue but stuck close. “I’ll need you…” Nate’s throat felt constricted by the sick nature of what his son endorsed. He tried again. “I’ll need you to issue an evacuation,” he told Sturges. “If anyone wants out, wants to start over, they should be allowed to. But we have to get the relay system up first.”

“You can count on me.”

“I know I can.” Nate did his best to smile.

He found his son in the director’s quarters, reclining in a medical bedtube, tucked in neat and cozy. Nate’s Institute-retrieved Pip-Boy was in his lap, Nora’s recording starting over from the beginning. Shaun’s elderly face was drawn and pale, his gaze vacant. He stared at the Pip-Boy cradled in his paper-skinned hands as if it were a window to a past he never knew and couldn’t comprehend. Sympathy bubbled up inside Nate, watching his son at the end of his journey.

“That’s the guy? The big, ol’ boogeyman behind the curtain?” Sturges asked, seeming stunned. “Not so scary right now, are ya, ol’ man?” He reached to grip the handle of the hammer is his coveralls. “Suppose you think you’re a martyr or somethin’, curin’ cancer or what have you. Well, you’re not. You’re gettin’ a lot of good folks killed every damned day.” He took a menacing step towards Shaun.

“Sturges!” Nate was shocked to see such a soft-spoken man come apart at the seams. “Don’t,” he warned through his teeth, shaking his head.

Sturges held steady, though his solid jaw twitched.

A click made the holo-recording stop, Nora’s voice and Shaun’s baby-babbles abruptly ending. “Come for the reactor, have you?” the elder-Shaun said, his eyes narrowing. “Chosen the renegades, the toy soldiers and the zealots over family? My mother would be so disappointed in you.”

A rush of unbridled anger swept through Nate. “No. You don’t get to pretend you know her. Or me.” Love for his family and the tremendous need to do his newborn son proud had carried Nate through the battlefields of Anchorage. Now, he fought for a chance at the peace he’d never known his entire life.

Exhaustion pulled at him. Up for two days now, he was weary to his bones. Nate was tired of fighting, tired of trying to save his son. There was no point in arguing. They were long past that point. “I’m sorry. The Institute must be stopped. I just wanted peace, my family back… neither of us get to have that now. Sturges –” he pointed to the director’s terminal across the room “– get everyone a way out.”

It took Sturges a few second to comply. “Right-o,” he said at last, leaving Nate’s side.

Shaun’s lip curled. “Lying doesn’t suit you, Father. You’re not sorry. You’ll be toted the savior while destroying everything – decades of work, technological leaps, lives. I offered you my title and you betray me instead. How can you justify yourself?”

“For the good of mankind,” Nate said, his tone close to mockery. He would have had a coup on his hands trying to change the course of the Institute from the inside. Ayo and Fillmore would have helmed it, and Nate would be right back in this same spot he was in now.

Shaun laughed, and fell into a fit of coughing. “Look at the world you live in,” he rasped, “what’s happened to it. Corrupt societies fighting for scraps. There are no good men up there, no hope for humanity.”

“Maybe not,” Nate agreed, Maxson and Desdemona’s inherent coldness coming to mind. “But there are exceptional synths out there. And ghouls. Maybe it’s past time that they inherit the Earth.”

Shaun’s sallow face turned pink.

“I’m in!” Sturges called. “Evacuation… done. Bringing relays back online.”

“How dare you,” Shaun hissed, his voice low as though speaking strained him. “I brought you back. I gave you a second chance at life, and you repay me through treachery.”

Nate and the others would have to leave soon, and he’d be forced to leave his son to die in the white box he adored. It wasn’t fair. He felt like a petulant child having that thought. “Shaun… my beautiful little boy. I didn’t want this. I just… I needed to see you one last time.”

Shaun weakly tossed the Pip-Boy to the floor. It bounced and clattered, landing near Nate’s feet. “None of it matters now. Just… get out,” Shaun muttered, turning his face away.

Guilt pounding its way through him, Nate retrieved his Pip-Boy and latched it on. He turned on his heel and left the room, Sturges following. Nate punched at the elevator button with a swift jab. The door slid open and he stepped in, leaning tiredly against the side of the lift system as it took them back to the main level. The system hummed softly as it traveled. He let himself close his eyes. _God, Nora. I tried. I tried so hard. I’m sorry._ How many times did he have to lose his family in one lifetime? He’d lost the copy too, a perfectly built little boy who considered Nate a dangerous stranger.

An automated voice fed through the Institute’s speakers. “ _Attention all personnel. Evacuation order issued. Authorization: 1-Y-R-3-1. Please proceed to your assigned evacuation points_. _Thank you for your cooperation_.”

Nate pushed away from the elevator wall. His friends, scattered throughout the Institute, needed him focused. There would be time for mourning later.


	12. The White Room

DEACON

The Institute

August 17th, 2288

With the lightshow going down in the atrium, the jig was up. Tick, tick. Now, it was a race against security forces to get what they needed and blow this joint before it literally… well… blew.

There was little point in adhering to stealth. Deacon and Curie ran flat out towards the directorate center, leaving the crisscrossing sounds of gunfire behind them. Fixer’s drawings and instructions came to life – turn here, up these stairs, through this door. Every level and section looked nearly identical, twisting clear tubular walkways and the same stark hallways. If Deacon stopped too long, maybe took in the scenery and the faces of the people daring to stick their heads out of doorways, he’d get turned around in this maze of a structure.

When they first reached the executive room, Deacon sailed clear past it and had to double back, bumping into Curie as she stuck close. He grabbed the doorway and hurled himself inside. Curie slid in and jabbed at a button that closed the door. Deacon took a sec – just a brief one – to brace himself against the door. He blew a long breath. Maybe age was taking its toll, but it was hard to gain a full inhale beneath the synth armor chestpiece.

More of the same sparse Institute décor greeted them. Another white room. A long, oblong table was the focal point, rimmed with uncomfortable-looking ergonomic chairs. A couple of multi-drawered desks with terminals sat in corners. Overhead fluorescents and a few simple yet space-agey floor lamps and chandeliers gave the room a yellow-green cast. One large plane of glass ran the entire length of the rear wall, with the concourse splayed out beyond, the huge elevator at the center. The other three walls housed huge banks of information pasted with digitalized readouts. A single intercom with a big red button was inlayed next to the doorway.

Deacon hovered by the door, hand curled around the staff of his shock baton, ears peeled for the heavy footfalls of coursers or the clanking sound of early model footsoldiers. Curie rushed to one of the info docks and ran a slim hand down the side until she found a port and slid a holotape in. While waiting for it to load, she pulled the maintenance outfit off and twisted it into a crude haversack slung crosswise over her chest. She shifted Biosciences’ holotapes out of the pockets and into the sack.

 _That’s my girl_ , Deacon beamed. _Always in such a rush to collect knowledge._ Although, yeah, the haste was valid. The pops from the concourse had faded, the rest of Fixer’s team likely splintered, hard at work in various locations. No time to snooze though. The Institute would be regrouping, sending out more troops. Hell, maybe the big shots were on their way _here_ to hold a hasty meeting.

A steady click of heels echoed down the hall, the sound barely filtering through the door. _Well, three-two-one-you’re on._ It wasn’t the rush of guards Deacon had been expecting, but as the steps drew closer, he stamped his foot and swept his arm through the air. Curie swung her face in his direction and dove under the long table, leaving one of the tapes loading.

Deacon positioned himself as to bar an immediate access over the threshold and flicked the baton charge on. This was… probably about to go very badly. Nothing to be done about it. The best he could do was buy Curie time.

The door slid open. He was face to helmeted face with Dr. Li. She jolted at the sight of his battered Gen-2 appearance, clearly surprised. “Unit!” she snapped, her face regaining that terse quality. “Get to the concourse immediately! There’s been a breech!”

“Hmm… I’m gonna say no,” said Deacon, careful to face away from Curie’s location. “I just ordered a pizza and if I’m not here to collect, well, I’m not gonna make the poor guy go search for me in the midst of a firefight.”

“I – Excuse me?” Li faltered, brow creasing in confusion.

Deacon shucked his field helmet to look her in the eye. It clanked to the floor. “Aw, what happened between us Li? You don’t call. You don’t write. We used to be so close.” That was a lie, of course, but… so what? The open door framing Li was a bigger concern. Her standing there looked suspicious and would instantly raise an alarm if she was seen stagnant and gawking.  

Scanning him, Li’s eyes took on a far away, glazed look, but only for a moment. “Well, now… John D. I was wondering when you’d show your face. Well, one of them.”

He drew back and to one side. As intended, Li followed, moving clear of the doorway. “Hey, I’m flatted you remember,” he said, keeping his heartbeat in check. “So, what gave me away?”

“Your voice hasn’t changed,” she said. “You and Harkness, thick as thieves, your voices echoing through Rivet City’s stairwells.”  

A sick feeling tied Deacon’s stomach in knots. Did she know about Harkness/Bishop/A3-21? About what he was? Had he… had he been reprogrammed, becoming an agent of the Institute? “You’re a real piece of work, Li. After the Brotherhood picked the Capital clean, seems like you found greener pastures.”

“The Institute courted _me_!” she spat, tension coiling her narrow shoulders. “I do good work. I always have. It was high time I be rewarded for it.”

They stood in the white room like two rivals from an old western, facing one another, each holding their ground. And that damned door was still open. Time for something either really brave or incredibly stupid. Maybe both. Railroad agents were no strangers to violence. Or torture. Hauling an unconscious Li up top could lead to some well-received information. “Well, here we are now,” Deacon quipped, egging her into making a move. “Entertain us.”

The Institute’s speakers came back to life. _“Attention all personnel. Evacuation order issued. Authorization: 1-Y-R-3-1. Please proceed to your assigned evacuation points. Thank you for your cooperation.”_

Moving surprisingly swiftly for a woman her age, Li darted to one side of the doorway, fingers extended to reach for the intercom. Deacon erupted, launching himself at her, grabbing Li’s arm just before she reached the button. Li jerked her arm closer, pulling Deacon forward. Using her full weight, she bull-rushed him, using a shoulder to knock him backwards across the room. His sneakers skidded on the polished floor, the ungainly weight of the armor almost throwing him off-balance.

He’d lost his window. Li pivoted, and her hand landed on the intercom. “The relays are up!” she shouted into it. “Send it! Send it all now!” Without a second look at Deacon, she took off. The hem of her labcoat billowed as she tore out the door.

Well, that was anticlimactic. Rude.

Deacon rushed to the doorway and shut the door. He whirled and ran to the table. “Up, up, up!” he said, helping Curie out of hiding. “Time to loot and scoot. Place is coming down soon.” Not to mention that Li was probably sending someone to deal with him right away.

“Un moment,” Curie intreated, hustling past him. She yanked the loaded holotape from the bank and began rustling through drawers, stuffing everything she could into her makeshift bag.

The evacuation order repeated. People rushed by in the adjacent hallway, their alarmed, confused voices muddied through the door.

He made for the wide observation window. The tubes holding the concourse synths had retreated into the floor. Their former occupants were running, following the Institute scientists out. Some of the synths in street clothes were ushering those in sterile uniforms, urging them to make for the surface. Like a rolling wave, those enslaved by the Institute sprang into action, following their Commonwealth-hardened brethren out. A mass synth exodus. Sure, a few coursers were going to get pumped up above in the harried flight, but the synths in the Institute were on their way out. Most would be confused as all hell when they got to the surface, but they’d be free.

Deacon felt dizzy with euphoria. He was… done. He was actually done. “Way to go, ya old bastard,” he congratulated himself. He could retire now, take up Sudoku and shuffleboard, spending his mornings fly-fishing for irradiated trout with Curie at his side, enamored by nature. 

The door behind him opened again. Deacon was mid-turn when a sudden spatter of blood on the glass obscured his view of the atrium. He completed his rotation and found Patriot staring at him through wild, enraged eyes over the barrel of a battered 9MM that looked like it had been in storage for some time.

“You goddamned liar,” Patriot accused through bared teeth.

Deacon couldn’t breathe. At first, he was more confused than alarmed. Then, he found himself choking, his throat on fire. Lungs turning leaden, he fell to his knees, field armor crunching under the impact. Deacon clutched at his neck. Hot blood streamed out between his fingers.

 _Oh, come on._ He’d been shot in the throat.

Well. Looked like this was it. Curie’s screaming confirmed it. If there was anything that she could have medically done for him, she wouldn’t be losing her head.

He had a plan for this moment when it came. Something about tears, and rain. But now, with the moment finally here, he couldn’t talk. If he had time, he’d file a complaint.

Patriot swung the gun in Curie’s direction, making her hop in alarm. “Li ran by me, yelling about topsiders stealing our work. And I knew, _I knew_ it was you. Killing us wasn’t enough?” The gun swung back towards Deacon. “One of your friends killed my father! He would have fought for synths, helped them build new lives on the surface. I thought… I thought you’d just take the synths. I trusted you. Why do you have to destroy everyone else?”

 _Because they’re all shades of Looney Tunes, just as you’re proving_ , thought Deacon. It sucked he couldn’t say it out loud.

“You ruined it,” Patriot blamed, tears filling his crazed eyes. “You ruined everything.” He turned the gun on himself. A second shot fired, and he fell to the floor in a bleeding heap.

Deacon snickered, blood bubbling in his throat. Not from humor, no, but from the utter ridiculousness and rapidity of it all. It wasn’t a true laugh; his diaphragm convulsed as best it could, his lungs refusing to inflate. He grinned like a maniac, tears rolling down his face to mix with the blood pouring down his hand.

A blurry Curie ran towards him, but it was taking her forever to cross the dozen paces between them. Deacon was dimly aware that she was screaming a name. He wished that Curie was yelling his name, but that wasn’t her fault. He’d never told her what it was.

Toppling onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling. Jeez… even the Institute’s ceiling tiles were scrubbed spotless. They shined so bright that all he could see was their infinite whiteness stretching out in all directions, encompassing the world and everything within it. Safe behind his shades, Deacon closed his eyes, and soaked into that vast expanse.


	13. Shotgunner

PIPER

The Institute

August 17th, 2288

Laser fire arced in bright streaks across the atrium. The filtered Institute air was dense with burnt ozone. Piper hurried towards their goal, shotgun clenched in her hands, while MacCready’s sharp sniper-eyes picked off threats.

She came to a sudden stop outside the lab called _Advanced Systems_ , the dread dripping down her throat at odds with her natural curiosity _._ MacCready’s back butted up against hers, still facing out towards the concourse. “What do you think we’ll find in here?” she asked, staring up at the sign. Gosh, there could be a whole battalion of half-finished coursers in there. Pet super mutants, brainwashed armies, who knew?

“Don’t have time to hang out wondering,” MacCready said. He drove an elbow into her back. “In!”

Mustering swift courage, Piper spinted through the doorway. MacCready stepped in with her, back pressed to hers until the door shut. They shared a brief look before darting deeper into the lab. More of the same stark design trademarked to the Institute marked the room – pearly white with runners of primary colors tracing walls and doorways. A blinking terminal sat on every desk and shiny equipment littered surfaces. Advanced Systems contained a bevy of winding alcoves and partially hidden workspaces, but no one was home. Piper supposed the location wasn’t a high priority place to visit while chaos reigned in the concourse.

“Man, I hate all this science-stuff,” MacCready said as he met her around a corner, the barrel of his rifle still held high. “Makes me feel like I missed an off-ramp in learning and ended up in Dimsville.”

“The school of Hard Knocks only offers one course,” Piper remarked, tapping away at a terminal on a central workstation, shotgun over her shoulder. “Survival 101.” She blew out a breath and worked on cracking the password. A good joke always helped her to calm nerves and focus. And if this wasn’t the most stressful mission she’d ever embarked on, she’d eat her hat.

“Yeah, I think I took that class,” MacCready added. “Straight As.” The harsh sound of metal drawers opening and closing meant that he was busy trying to help kick up important files. “Oh, hey. Tapes,” he said. “Looks like they’re labeled. _Air Filtration. Soy Project. Skin Synthesis_ – yuck.”

“Pocket ‘em,” she instructed, eyes still following lines of scrolling code. In was her last try before lock out. She sent out a few prayers to various deities, just in case. She gritted her teeth. On the very last try, she got it, and files began unlocking. “Glory hallelujah,” she muttered, eyes rolling upward. “Ya like cuttin’ it close, don’t ya?” She turned to MacCready, asking, “Got some blanks?”

“Uhh, maybe? Here, try this one,” he said, tossing her an orange holotape. He faced back towards the door, steadying his rifle once more.

She frowned and slid the tape into the terminal. Seemed like this terminal was linked to the others. Good. Less time bouncing between workstations to get to Advanced Systems’ records.

 _Download all?_ the screen asked.

Since ‘fuck yeah’ wasn’t an option, Piper typed, _Yes_.

_Beginning download. Please stand by._

A diminutive buzz sounded within the terminal, followed by a whole lot of nothing. Piper shifted nervously, tugging at her cap. MacCready looked deadly efficient, body straight as an arrow, muscle all tight and bunched. Beneath his cap, his blue eyes were cold and sharp. _He’s probably killed as many strangers as a raider_ , Piper thought with unease. _People with families that rubbed someone the wrong way, bad guys in trouble with badder guys, synths – or suspected synths – and ghouls just for being alive_. Enough caps suppressed questions, and MacCready didn’t seem like a guy that dug too deep.

Never one to accept silence, Piper started with, “So, uh, you got a kid, huh?” Piper’s ear was always alert and Goodneighbor was practically vibrating with rumors about its new mayor.

MacCready gave her a bone dry, “Yup.”

“And you – what – ditched it to become some tough, bad guy merc?”

His face twisted into an ugly frown as he faced her. “Man, you don’t mess around with words, do you? Sure, I’ll play. Darn right, I was bad. Ate babies and pushed old people down stairs just for the sake of hearing that satisfying crunch at the bottom. Had the kind of life where you could do anything – have anything – so long as you’d do what it takes to get it.” His eyes narrowed as his lip curled. “You gonna put that in print and try to get me kicked outta office? I know how much you hate mayors.”

A wry smile found its way onto her face. “I know a whopper when I hear one. You’re not that guy at all.” MacCready was dyed gray, which perfectly suited him for Goodneighbor. He could be ruthless, but never malicious. He had some sort of weird code that kept him around to back Nate up. After knowing him nearly a year, Piper trusted him, especially now with her life in his hands as they prowled the Institute. Maybe she’d been selling Goodneighbor boys short.

MacCready rolled his lips and glanced at the door leading to the concourse. “I tried to be. For the caps if nothing else. But that way’s hard and short and it doesn’t give anything back. It takes tenfold what you’d get out of it. It grinds you down and leaves you pathetic and alone.” His icy blue eyes darted to the ground and back up. “Least, that’s how it ended for me. Took a long time to get back here again, to be any type of parent to my son.” He snuffled a laugh through his nose and turned his face to hers, eyes shining. “I’m actually happy. For the first time in years, I’m happy. What a ride, though.”

Piper gave him an empathetic smile. She wondered if it was possible to really earn second – and third or fourth – chances. She’d been just as culpable as MacCready for making her job a priority and putting her sister, Nat, at risk. Little families had to do what they could in the Wastes, making due even if that meant being separated for a time.

The terminal chimed a positive sound. Piper retrieved the holotape. When the cassette slid free, she spotted a tiny red light on the side of the terminal. It was blinking. “Hey,” she said, reaching out to tap MacCreaady’s arm. “What do you make of this?”

MacCready’s smug contentment snapped away. “We triggered a warning. Balls.” He sidestepped away from the door as it slid open.

An onslaught of sudden laser fire caught them off guard. Piper flung herself to one side, shots hitting the terminal instead of her. It exploded, sending hot metal and sparks raining down over her shoulders. Computer banks burst under the barrage, glass tinkering to the floor. She heaved herself behind one of the workstations, dragging her explosive shotgun along, feeling in the eye of an energy-fire hurricane. Two deafening rifle shots added to the disorientation.

Gritting her teeth, Piper primed her shotgun and braced the barrel along the edge of the workstation. She pumped shot after shot into the tempest. Immense fireballs danced all over the entryway, engulfing her assailants. Figures stood in the fire, thrashing, already skeletal. Gen-1s. Though they burned, some weren’t deterred, and resumed firing in her direction. She let loose a few more wild, panicked shots as she ducked back into cover. Across the lab, MacCready bellowed in pain.

Above the whoosh and crackle of flames, a loudspeaker announced, _“Attention all personnel. Evacuation order issued. Authorization: 1-Y-R-3-1. Please proceed to your assigned evacuation points. Thank you for your cooperation.”_

Piper waited, bent over her shotgun, ears straining to hear the softs clank of robotic footsteps. The fires died out, the steady wail of a male voice the only sound in the lab. Blowing swift breaths, Piper stood and leapt over the workstation, her backside skidding over shrapnel and charred bits of machinery. She landed on her knees on the other side, staring down the iron sights of her shotgun.

Framed by a soot-darkened doorway, five blistered Gen-1s lay heaped on the ground. One or two still weakly moved, fingers groping along the floor, not registering that most of their bodies had been destroyed.

In a sickening caricature of the partially-functioning Gen-1s, she found MacCready on the opposite side of the room, scooting away from the entrance. Most of his right leg was gone. What remained was leaving a bright trail of blood along the white floor.

All thought halted in Piper’s brain. The shotgun slid from her numb hands. Clumsy with shock, she pushed herself up and darted to MacCready’s side. His right leg was an absolute atrocity – ragged, bleeding flesh and visible shards of protruding bone. There was nothing below the knee beyond scraps of trailing skin. The frayed edges of his pant leg were burnt, some of the fabric sticking to the wound. His blood pumped rivulets, spilling his life out onto the floor.

Her frantic fingers found her scarf, and she yanked it off. Shaking, she slid it under the remains of his leg, looped it, and twisted it tight as she could. She patted him down, fingers probing his pockets and pouches. “Mac, where are your stims?”

“You,” he grunted, stained teeth clenched tight.

_Me?_

The memory of the assaultron attack came flooding back. He’d used his aid on her.

MacCready’s thin body contorted, another yowl tearing from his throat. Piper clapped a hand over his mouth as he writhed, body arching, screaming into her hands, his blood pooling around them. His panicked tears of pain soaked through the fabric of her gloves. The evacuation order played once more.

“Help,” Piper whispered. They were supposed to meet the others in the relay room. No one was coming. The holotapes in their possession meant nothing.

She sank into the throb of her own rushing pulse, losing time and sensation in it. MacCready continued to sob, bleeding out beside her, blood flowing across the polished floor like a crimson wave.

“Help!” she cried, guilty tears streaming down her cheeks. “ _Help_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout out to all my friends in Fallout 76 who've blown themselves up due to their OP shotguns.


	14. No Time for Grieving

CURIE

The Institute

August 17th, 2288

Alarms screamed all over the Institute, swallowing up Curie’s cries. “Deacon!” she screamed again. She knew he was already dead. His body lay slumped, blood congealing upon his synth armor chestpiece. His eyes remained shielded.

Curie sprinted over the corpse of the deranged young man that had stolen not only Deacon’s life but taken his own as well. Her bag of tapes and files swung forward as she knelt at Deacon’s side, one hand hovering over his jet-black pompadour.

Her heart and soul screamed. She hurt. The ache was vast, containing the incalculable emptiness of the universe, stretching out into eternity within her fragile synthetic body. Her memories of his guarded affection would remain just that – memories. All slow advances toward any sort of open and full life with him had been snuffed out in moments. Perhaps that reality had always been a fantasy, some foolish hope she’d had egged into being by old holovids and the poetic waxing of her creators. Maybe she’d loved him. Maybe she still didn’t understand what that truly entailed. She’d never know.

There was no time for grieving. Shaking, she stood and walked with purpose to the young man’s body. The old, tarnished handgun he’d used felt heavy as she picked it up, weighed down by the atrocity it had taken part in. The magazine was only short two bullets. The laser pistol Deacon had given her rode in the sling with the tapes. Footsteps in the adjacent corridor had thinned, those who lived in the Institute on a mad dash out of the facility. It was time to go. She had to get the information on her out of the building.

She took one final glance at Deacon before exiting the room. Leaving his body behind was the single hardest thing she’d ever done. She followed human stragglers – older people and those towing children – as they wound down a wide stairwell. The vestibule was so tall and large that a tree grew straight up in the center of it. Branches packed with healthy leaves flew by each level she descended.

Curie’s flight stuttered at the bottom of the stairs, facing the atrium once more. The backs of Institute residents disappeared into various side halls and around corners. She was hopelessly lost. Deacon had known the layout, not her. She was more likely to walk into a roomful of coursers escorting their masters to the surface than find Monsieur Nate and the others.  

As if on cue, a trio of Gen-1s, stepped onto the concourse. Likely a skeleton crew of guards left behind, they all had pistols in hand. Curie whipped the pistol up and fired.

Danse had taught her well. The shot knocked clean through one of their craniums. It half-turned before falling. The others swung in her direction, advancing and training their guns on her. Curie back-peddled, racing a few paces up the stairs. She fired one blind shot before putting the tree trunk between her and them. A few blue laser beams ate into the tree. The smell of charred wood filled the well. Both high ground and cover were hers. Looking between branches, she trained the pistol at the ascending steps, waiting for spindly legs to climb them. Steel toes landed and she unloaded the rest of the clip into a half-meter diameter. At the empty click of the 9MM, she switched to the laser pistol and kept firing.

Two synth torsos fell forward, clanging as they hit the stairs. Both slid backwards and out of sight. Curie waited, heart nearly in her mouth.

 _“Assistance required. Damage detected,”_ one chirped.

 _“Assi- required. Dam- detect-,”_ the other echoed in broken chunks.

_“Infiltrator still at large.”_

_“Infil- still–”_

Cautious, she peered between branches. Staring down, she found them sprawled at the foot of the stairs. Though she’d done impressive damage to their lower halves, the wrecked units still had their guns. They waved them, searching for her.

 _Dumb things_ , she thought with distaste, _little more than legged turrets_. Even in her basic, antique Miss Nanny state she’d been more advanced, capable of independent thought and rationale. She’d been created to help people, save them even. But dreams were easily crushed by reality, and the Commonwealth provided an endless parade of death, failures, and disappointment. Created in the confines of a lab, she might just die in this one. Such would be acceptable if she succeeded in helping others. The information she carried might save countless lives and create a very different future for the Commonwealth. Perhaps the world.

Even downed, the Gen-1s were dangerous. Others could be coming to support, and Curie put distance between her and them. She ran back up the stairs, across another white hall and down a different winding set of stairs with a different tree in the center. Her feet took her in a broad arc, racing through vacant walkways, madly following a painted line on the floor. Adrift in the Institute’s maze of matching corridors, she tried to remember where Nate said to meet. Dread grew as she ran, lost. She glanced about, scanning for signs or familiar figures – Danse in his hulking armor or Sturges’ denim.

“ _Help_!” someone called with breathless urgency.

Curie halted, exposed, straining to hear over the alarms. “Someone! Help!” the person called again. It was a woman’s voice.

There was no option but to respond. Curie was made to be a lifesaver.

Turning on her heel, she tore through the doorway to _Advanced Systems_ and almost tumbled over a pile of crisp Gen-1s. The whole lab stank of fire damage and melted plastic. She sidled around them and slipped on slick flooring. Trying to break her fall, she landed on outstretched hands that glided over the mess. Her elbows connected with the floor, spurring sharp pain. She gasped and rocked back into a kneel. Her palms left the floor with a wet pop. They were coated in blood.

“Oh my, God. Curie!”

Curie’s eyes followed the blood trail to where Piper sat with most of MacCready in her lap. Momentary relief tickled her senses. Once she spotted MacCready’s injury, all her panic and nerves clicked to _off_. She flung herself forward and into work mode. Settling at their sides, she flipped her bag of holotapes around to sit on her back. The cassettes inside clacked together.

Shaking with shock, MacCready was out of it, his eyes glazed. Color had drained from this face, leaving his skin gray. “I think I’m hurt bad…” he murmured.

“Do not talk,” Curie reprimanded, clapped hands over the stump of his leg. Every time MacCready spoke or shifted, the flow of blood increased. He writhed and hissed as Curie peeled shards of his pantleg away to inspect the damage. Blood still trickled, the pressure of Piper’s scarf not enough to staunch blood flow. He had already lost so much blood prior to Curie’s arrival that it seemed a marvel that he had any left to spare. It streamed over Curie’s probing fingers. She felt guilty to be splashed with hot life while Deacon lay dead and cooling.

“Curie, where’s Deacon?” Piper questioned, fright evident in her voice. She looked terrified, eyes wide, pupils contracted. “He’s coming, right? He can help?”

Curie didn’t look at Piper. She couldn’t answer; she’d shatter into pieces.

Under her hands, MacCready shuddered. “Now seems… like a pretty good time… to be unconscious.” He went limp between them, muscles rolling slack. He still lived. Curie felt the faint throb of a pulse.

There was nothing she could have done for Deacon, but MacCready was not yet condemned. “Oui,” she said, nodding to herself, building resolve. “Piper, you will assist.”

“Did you find any stimpaks?”

“I have none. But it does not matter.” No amount of stimpaks would rebuild MacCready’s leg. “The synth pile at the door, it smolders. Find me the hottest piece of metal and bring it to me.”

“I, um… okay.” Piper got up and rushed to the doorway. She kicked through the burnt bodies until she turned over a synth forearm, the tip of its artificial radius and ulna glowing red. Piper plucked it up by the wrist joint and brought it over. “This is gonna be pretty awful, isn’t it?” she said as Curie’s free hand took the arm.

“Take his belts,” Curie commanded, cool competence chasing away fear. “Strap them high and make them tight.” They would replace Piper’s scarf as more effective tourniquets. Piper complied, leaning across MacCready to tug his belts free.

Drawing a shuddery breath, Curie exposed the ragged knob of MacCready’s ruined leg. Wincing, she pressed the glowing end of the synth forearm to his stump, cauterizing the wound. Piper turned her face away as the air filled with the smell of burnt meat.

Once done, Curie dropped the arm. The act of moving him – as they must to escape – could tear the wound open once again. He was a small man. She and Piper should be capable of carrying him, but the going would be slow, stealing time they may not have.

All the lights in the Institute went out. The hum of machinery, the buzz of the fluorescents, even the slight breeze from air vents all ceased.

In that moment of utter black stillness, Curie froze. Piper’s hand found her shoulder. With little fanfare, amber and red emergency lights came on, their weak glows like campfires about to go out. The overall silence was eerie. Nothing lived here anymore. It had become another ruin in the Wasteland’s realm, another Vault, another hidden atrocity waiting for new owners. Science could be both wonderful and terrible, and if the Institute was reclaimed, surely the world above would be destroyed.

No. Curie wouldn’t let that happen. She stood for progress and human lives. Deacon had given his to grant freedom to all enslaved here. But what could she do? She was no leader, no glorious fighter, just a scientist and an infant synth.   

“Man, I don’t wanna take sudden spooky-ass darkness as an omen,” a voice drawled. Someone was coming around the doorway. Curie drew her laser pistol and stood, charging the last few rounds. “But it don’t exactly make me feel _good_.” The outline of two men appeared in shadow, framed by the doorway. Curie trained the weapon on them.

They must have seen her move. One fell back while the other charged forward, on a direct path towards the synth pile. In the dark, he stumbled over it, huge gun nearly toppling from his hands. Close enough now, the emergency lights illuminated his face. “Curie,” Nate stated with a sigh, righting his Gauss. “Good. The others?” Sturges peeked around his shoulder. He’d been the drawler.

Curie lowered her pistol and glanced back at Piper and MacCready. They were lit from behind, even then the lighting poor.

Marching towards them, Nate’s expression went from sturdy determination to slack horror. “Holy shit,” he breathed, staring at MacCready. “Where –” He gulped. “Where are the others?”


	15. Horror Show

JOHN

The Institute

August 17th, 2288

John couldn’t speak for Danse, but he was well-winded by their lengthy distraction efforts. The action in the atrium was in full swing, Danse firing long range and John covering his back. Forces had descended on the two of them – Gen-1s and 2s and easily a dozen coursers. Even a few suicidally brave scientists had joined the mix.

Ducking a volley of laser shots, John slammed his sledgehammer down on the floor leading out to the concourse. It crackled like ice breaking. He leapt back from the plexiglass as it shattered, shards dropping into the water beneath., Several advancing Gen-1s fell into the running water as the floor disappeared beneath them and promptly shorted out. A single courser sprang over them, launching itself at John. An angled blow from _Righteous Judgement_ took its head clean off, sending an arc of blood sailing. John huffed and spun, racing to keep in Danse’s shadow.  

Danse was a maelstrom of war, no shot wasted, no mercy given. He struck down armed humans as simply as he did robotic forces. “John!” he barked, kneeling to reload.

“Yup,” John affirmed, bringing his hammer back up. He charged over Danse’s armor, dropping down in front of the man to knock a pair of Gen-2s to the ground. Their resin armor fractured under the hammer’s blow. A back-handed swing shattered another courser’s jaw. Several bloody teeth soared through the air as it went sprawling. Danse was up again, and firing.

From seemingly nowhere, a Gen-2 flung itself at Danse’s back, propelling him into John’s field of view. Danse reached a metal hand over his shoulder and grabbed ahold of the thing’s head. With a metallic pop, he crushed its cranium and tossed it to the ground. A few more well-placed shots took out the remaining coursers.

 _“Attention all personnel,”_ a voice echoed through the atrium. _“Evacuation order issued. Authorization: 1-Y-R-3-1. Please proceed to your assigned evacuation points. Thank you for your cooperation.”_

John’s gaze swung back over the atrium. Trees were aflame, the ground littered with synth bodies. The air was smoky and stank of blasted ozone. The area was emptying of human combatants, coursers falling in line to shield them. “Gotta go!” he shouted to Danse.

“Indeed,” said Danse, eyes darting about, still on the lookout.

Following Nate’s instructions, they headed left. A red stripe on the floor led them straight to _Robotics_. They pressed backs to either side of the door. Faint clangs and gunfire told of Institute guards chasing the other members of their team throughout the complex. One last kamikaze Gen-2 sprinted up a walkway at them. Both John and Danse landed a simultaneous blow to it, tearing it in half.

They nodded to one another and stepped inside _Robotics_. The door closed behind them.

This had to be what Hell looked like. A vat of bubbling crimson ooze sat steaming in the center of the room. Human bones lay in organized heaps upon workstations. Pinkish slime swirled within vast glass cylinders. An enormous claw dangled from the ceiling, rotating back and forth in its socket, swinging between one station and the next, caught between phases of assembly. Two robotic arms hung immobile from the same joint, needled fingers sharp. The whole lab smelled of copper and tangy alcohol. At one of the workstations, a flayed man hung crucified within a ring.

“Looks like the Institute was into some sick shit,” John grumbled, stepping further into the room. It was easy to revert to base, if immoral, instincts underground and in the shadows. He’d seen it in back alleys and Vic’s Goodneighbor – the freedom of living without consequences or basic decency. 

Rifle down, face twisted in disgust, Danse approached the skinless man. Its eyes opened, rolling in their sockets, fixating on Danse. Leaping back, Danse’s mouth fell open. Danse rotated slowly, taking in the entire lab. “This is where it starts. Where the Institute gives life to synths,” he said in tormented awe.” Tipping his chin up, Danse stared at the claw and stated, “I was born in this room.”

His dark eyes snapped to the glow of a nearby wall-mounted terminal. Stomping to it, he stared at the green cast of the monitor before saying, “John, I need you to do something.”

“What’cha want?” John asked. A crawling sensation played up and down his spine as he moved towards Danse. The guy’s eyes were huge and haunted.

“This might be the only chance I have to find out why I was constructed,” said Danse, voice on the verge of cracking. “I need to know how much of my history is mine. Can you find info on an M7-97?”

Battling with a sense of _self_ and what that meant – yeah, John could relate. He’d wage war for Danse to find his answers. “Sure, bud. Course,” he said, setting the hammer aside.

“Thank you. I… I need to do something else.” Danse moved away from the terminal, reeling slightly as he wandered about the horrifying room, almost as if in a trance.  

After popping a quick Mentat, John set to work on the terminal. He cracked the password first try and scanned through folders and sub-folders. _Special Projects_ looked promising and he scrolled down to file dates earmarked with 2277, when Danse had been sent to the surface. There were two files under that year – _A3-21_ and _M7-97_. Something was familiar about the other unit’s designation, but he struggled to place why.

A sleek file cabinet sat nearby. Ripping drawer after drawer open revealed a pile of tapes. John jammed one into the port and began loading the year’s files. _Copying data_ , the screen read. _Stand by._

A strangled roar made him whip around. John turned in time to watch Danse put an armored fist through one of the workstation’s control centers. Danse ripped his hand out, a cluster of circuitry and wiring poking out between steel fingers. He brought both fists down on a console over and over, shattering it and pounding it into refuse. He looked like a steel Behemoth let loose, wrecking machinery it didn’t understand.

With a frantic look in his eye, Danse stretched to his full, suited height and locked hands around the giant claw dangling from its ceiling mount. Its connections squealed in protest as Danse fought to pull it free. The veins in his neck bulged thick and blue, his face tato-red. A shower of sparks cascaded down over his armor as the claw disengaged. Wielding it like a club, Danse swung it at another one of the stations, demolishing the center and sending bone shards flying in all directions. He charged, targeting the cylindrical vats. The claw crashed through the glass tubes, sending a flood of pink goo streaming across the floor and over the greaves of his armor.

Teeth clenched, Danse stumbled backwards, struggling to pry the claw’s joints apart. The hefty thing came apart with an angry crunch and Danse tossed the pieces into the pool of ichor in the middle of the room. The thick liquid inside poured over the edges as the claw half-submerged. Panting, Danse stood as the foundation in a diorama of pure devastation. The floor was littered with bones, gore, metal and glass.

John got it. He understood Danse’s utter need to destroy what had made him _him_. It went beyond their duty to end the Institute’s reign. This was personal. And a terrible thing to face. But beneath his revulsion for all the Institute stood for, John had to be grateful for the miracle of Danse’s existence, for the care put into his creation, for choosing to set him loose in the Capital so that they could meet. He could hate them the way he hated slavers and bullies, but he also had to be thankful.

Finding one last spark of rage, Danse snatched a lengthy splinter of shattered bone from the floor. He stalked with purpose towards the flayed man still hanging in the ring. Without slowing, Danse drove the sharp point of the bone through the heart of the flayed man until he was face-to-face with it. Its head lolled, dropped to its chest. Danse released the bone and staggered back, sucking air, tears streaming down his checks. His eyes were empty and unfocused, his breathing fast and shallow, face pale. His posture slumped and Danse suddenly appeared small inside his armor – nothing like the hulking mass he was just moments earlier.

John found he’d unintentionally backed up, moving away from Danse during his outburst. His hip was pressed against the file cabinet. He frowned at terminal. The download continued to crawl along. Placing careful, slow steps, he made his way towards Danse, traversing puddles of questionable material. He eased himself into Danse’s field of vision. Knowing full well Danse tended to go deaf in the aftermath of high-stress situations, he didn’t bother talking. He kept his eyes fixed on Danse’s, at the blank terror that resided within.

Easing a hand to Danse’s metal forearm, John nodded. _It’ll be okay._ When some life returned to Danse’s dead stare, John gave a simple smile. _I’m with you._

Danse clapped heavy hands onto John’s shoulders, nearly knocking him to his knees. His breathing slowed and stabilized, color spreading back onto his face. This might have been the part where normal people hugged. Eternally guarded Danse just squeezed John’s shoulders before sliding hands down his arms. It was enough. It had to be.

The lights in the laboratory cut out, lurking them both into still, pitch darkness. The few red emergency lights that flicked on moments later only served to accentuate the horror show that the room had become. Danse jerked in his armor and made haste back to the terminal. He tried to retrieve the holotape. “ _Fuck_ ,” he spat in a rare curse. He sank fingers into the terminal, ripped it off the wall, and hurled it to the ground. The terminal burst open like a dropped melon, spilling bits of metal and keys everywhere instead of pulp. From within the wreckage, Danse plucked the holotape free.

Disappointment landed in John’s gut with a thunk. “Christ. Did it finish loading?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Danse grumbled, depositing the tape into a compartment. His face was a mask. “Let’s go.”

Armored strength allowed Danse to pry the door open. They slipped out and shot across the vacant concourse. The evacuation order played on repeat, echoing in the tall atrium, though there didn’t seem to be a soul left. The center lift system was frozen, its elevator stuck in place fifteen feet off the ground. Abandoned, and under the glow of amber and red emergency lights, the Institute looked even more sinister. The trees cast long shadows over bodies littered the ground – John and Danse’s earlier handywork. John’s gnarled skin prickled as he imagined accusing eyes from the residences’ inky windows. No. False. The place was empty, save for ghosts of the people and synths they’d killed. But what did a few more bodies mean to a former paladin and a former lord of a gangster militia? John had lost since lost count of the people killed both on his command and by his own hand.

The _Advanced Systems_ sign was dark and hard to make out. A burning smell greeted them at the open door. Digging deep, John willed the reactor in the head of his sledgehammer to life. It was a simple trick now, more like asking latent radiation in the environment to cooperate. There weren’t many rads to pull from in the Institute, and the glow from _Righteous Judgement_ was paltry. Still, it was enough to see by. And – shit – there sure was a sight to see.

Nate, Sturges, and Piper were all staring numbly down at MacCready. The grey-green color of the sniper’s skin had nothing to do with the sledgehammer’s lighting. Curie knelt at his side, attending to the bloodied stump of his right leg.

“Mac,” John whispered, stomach threatening to heave bile. He took a knee by MacCready’s side and squeezed his shoulder. “Jesus fucking God.”

Danse moved forward, chin making tight ticks as he did a head count. “Deacon?” he asked.

From the ground, Curie shook her head. “Non.”

For a few moments, no one said anything. “We…,” Nate started, his voice thick. “We need to get that power armor to the reactor room.”

Danse cocked his head. “Why?”

“It’s carrying an explosive.”

“You’re just now saying this?” Danse blurted, voice sharp, his brows lowering.

“I knew you’d be fine.” Bearing flooded back into Nate, and he used his military voice to say, “Sturges, the relays are back up. Find us a way out of here.”

Tearing eyes away from MacCready, Sturges snapped, “Dammit, General. For the last time – I’m a repairman, not an engineer.” At Nate’s look of exhausted irritation, he amended, “But I’ll figure it out.”

“I will assist,” offered Curie from her place at MacCready’s side.

Together she and John got MacCready up and balanced against burly Sturges. Mac was such a tiny guy that Curie and Sturges could easily carry him out of the lab.

Nate repeated, “Alright. Alright, everybody else, with me.” He made for a set of doors at the back end of the lab. “Through here. John, looks like you’re our torch. Lead the way.” He and Danse pried the doors open. The black maw of a tunnel loomed beyond. A shaky-looking Piper retrieved MacCready’s rifle and readied it.

Holding his glowing hammer aloft, John stepped into the tunnel. “Deeper down the rabbit hole we go,” he dryly quipped. Piper kept eye on their flank while Nate and Danse pushed onward, the barrels of their weapons poking over John’s shoulders. The hammer’s weak green light only gave them a few feet of illumination. Concrete walls were draped with thick cables and wide piping all going in the same forward direction. The sensation of having been buried alive crept through John, what with the oppressive darkness and stale air. Without life support, they had to hustle.

At the end of the tunnel sat a sturdy set of steel double doors. Danse and Nate did their military thing, giving quick hand gestures under hardened eyes. Quick as his suit would allow, Danse kicked the doors open, and he and Nate swept inside, staring down their sights. A faint warmth played over John’s skin and the head of _Righteous Judgement_ burst to brighter life, its glow turning a brilliant jade. Ticking sounds made Danse and Nate pause to inspect their Geiger counters. They grimly nodded to each other. “Fantastic,” Piper muttered from the rear. She and John followed the others into the room.

Flashing pops of bright white warning lights seared John’s eyes. Under the blink of the lights, they found themselves in work lab lined with lockers and chemical showers. A large decontamination arch led to a door going into the next section. Above it read, _REACTOR_. Beside the arch was an observation window looking into a large, industrial room. Peeking through the glass revealed a series of metal walkways and staircases. A squat, sturdy lead structure sat in one corner of the room on an elevated level. It had a small, rectangular window in its door with dazzling blue light swirling on the other side of the glass. If John had to guess what a reactor looked like, that was it.    

“Alright,” said Nate. “There it is. Looks like –” He broke off and ducked beneath the observation window. The others followed suit.

On the way down, John caught humanoid movement in the reactor room. “Did you –?” he started.

“Yeah,” said Piper.

“Three of them,” added Danse.

“Fuck,” John blurted. Hand snaking into his pocket, he fingered his final Jet canister. “C’mon already. We’re overdue for a break.”

“They didn’t look like coursers,” said Nate, setting his jaw the way he did when formulating a plan. “Gen-1s. Or 2s.”

Made sense. Early model synths wouldn’t give a shit about evacs or needing to breathe in an underground facility that was shutting down. Abandoned guard dogs, these synths weren’t going anywhere. “So, new plan?” John asked.

“Same as before, largely,” said Nate, “Guns blazing. We each take one. Piper, you’ll lay down suppression. Keep them separated.”

“Oh, boy,” she said in a joyless tone. “Sure thing.”

Nate looked sheepish for an instant before saying, “John, I’ll need you, um... performance ready.”

“No problem,” John remarked, pulling the Jet out. “Ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille.” Danse made a disgusted face and tilted his head to look out the window. Considering they were about to battle to the death, John dismissed Danse’s chem disapproval. A few days earlier, John had been nearly clean. If they all lived, they could squabble about it later. 

The canister of Jet rattled in John’s hand as Danse moved under the decontamination arch to take position at the door to the reactor chamber. “The element of surprise is on our side. Let’s light ‘em up.”

In one long, lung-bursting inhale, John sucked the entire content of the canister down. He then swung his hammer up, irradiated fire trailing behind it. “Lights are good to go,” he rasped.

Danse threw the door open and roared in battle-readiness.

Spurred by the Jet, John rushed out first, racing out onto the walkway. He got all the way up to the synth on the furthest level before it got its first shot off. These synths were stranger than the others, clad in black field armor over white base layers and all carrying heavy weapons. The one facing John brandished a minigun. As the barrel started spinning, John brought his sledgehammer down on it. The minigun’s barrel collapsed under the force of the hammer. The minigun’s drum clogged, and bullets began shooting out the back of the weapon, peppering the synth. It dropped the weapon and sprang at John, driving a fist at his face. It caught John on the chin and spun him. He dropped to the floor of the metal walkway, hammer falling next to him.

As he fell, he caught sight of Nate’s Gauss doing battle with another synth’s Gatling laser in a hail of energy bolts. A ball of fire spilled from the third synth’s flamer as Danse advanced upon it, flames licking over his armor. A rifle cracked, and John’s catwalk shuddered as his synth joined him on the metal floor, a neat hole in its chest. One point for Piper.

John rolled, scrambling to his feet. His hand closed over the hammer’s handle and he hefted it. The synth still functioned, springing upward and launching itself to tackle John’s legs. Time still wonky from the Jet, John easily sidestepped the synth and brought his hammer down on its armored back. The blow wasn’t enough to crush it, but he wielded more than enough rads to finish the job. He channeled energy down through the hammer, gathering it in the head. He brought _Righteous Judgement_ straight up and then down again, releasing pent-up radiation. It spilled into the synth, dissolving its armor and melting the polyester clothing beneath. Its body smoked as its limbs thrashed in frantic jerks before stilling. It never screamed.

The Jet crash came suddenly. A wave of disorienting nausea nearly took John to his knees. Emergency lights continued to flash, drilling a migraine into his skull. He braced against the railing and squeezed his eyes shut. Mottled sound focused, and he heard Danse’s battle cries reach a conclusion. A few more sharp energy blasts cut the air before the room fell silent. “Sound out!” Nate called.

“Good,” Danse huffed from a level below.

“Good,” Piper repeated from the bottom.

“Decent,” added John, gulping bile, the edges of his vision still a little blurred. He righted himself and wove down to Danse’s level. Singed armor and a reddened face told of Danse’s clash with the flamer. The reactor sat a few paces to one side, a terminal sitting on a quaint trolley in front of it. Behind its narrow glass window, a sphere of blue energy whirled around the reactor core. It was almost pretty, if you didn’t think about all the raw, deadly power housed inside.

Nate climbed up and popped a hatch of Danse’s armor. He pulled a square device covered in wires free. “Pulse charge,” he stated, closing the panel on the suit. “Need to be adhered to the reactor core.”

“The reactor… core?” Danse parroted, expression turning dubious. “You’d need to shut it down and syphon residual radiation out of the chamber first.”

“Yeah, I’d hoped…” Nate snorted a sigh as he sidled up to the terminal. He started pushing buttons. “I’d hoped that the reactor had a backup system. Even if the Institute lost power, they’d want their reactor to have safeguards.” He tapped and tapped and then stopped. A tremor began in his jaw. He was quiet for too long.

“No go?” asked John, already knowing the answer as he rubbed his pounding head.

“Fuck,” was Nate’s reply. “Backup disabled. God damnit, Shaun…”

Piper joined them. “Any bright ideas?” she asked.

Their group stood in silence. Though the emergency lights still flashed, they seemed to be getting dimmer. Either the Institute was losing reserve power or John was about to pass out.

It wasn’t as if they could just leave the Institute as it was and come back later. Soon the evacuees would realize they’d been duped and double back, angered and hungry for vengeance. If they sealed the tunnels, if they straight up murdered every synth that escape at their sides, all of this would be for nothing. Fear on the surface would intensify, and justly so. Deacon’s death would be meaningless. Nick’s dream of a world where everyone could just get the fuck along would never come to pass.

A solution crashed into John’s foggy brain. And he hated it. In another lifetime, he would have kept it to himself, letting others worry about actively fighting while he stayed safe and worthless in the shadows. Shit. What if everything was leading to this moment – the drug, his transformation, Far Harbor, the Slog? Maybe it wasn’t fate – John didn’t believe in that – but it might just be evolution. If so, this was his responsibility, and his alone.

“Okay,” he said quietly, and then again with more assurance. “Okay. I got this.”

The others gave him confused glances. “Got what?” Piper asked, narrowing her eyes. Nate’s stare intensified as if reading John’s intent.

“I’ll do it,” said John. He swallowed. “I’ll go into the reactor.”

Danse jerked as if electrified. “John, no. That’s suicide! You can’t –”

“You don’t know that,” John argued. He wasn’t certain he’d die. There was no way to know. But if anyone could walk into a reactor and out again, a ghoul stood the best chance. “Hell, _I_ don’t know that. Rads and I, we’ve got an understanding now. We’re fresh outta robots and mutants. Gotta be me.”

He made a move to step forward but Danse grabbed his arm. “No. I won’t let you.”

John dropped his voice to a calm whisper, voice punctuated with purpose. “That ain’t for you to decide. Dan… I don’t want to this but I gotta, and you have to let me. I love you. Let me go.”

The desolation is Danse’s eyes was almost enough to make him change his mind. But that would be an awful kind of selfish. He ached to the bone. He’d been fighting for days, maybe even his whole life. John summoned all the courage he could and nodded to Danse.

Metal fingers set him free. John turned to Piper and handed her _Righteous Judgment_. “Keep that safe for me, ‘kay?”

She bit her lip but nodded, accepting the hammer. The green light emanating from it vanished. Nate’s gaze never wavered. “You’re sure?” he asked, voice soft and a little pained.

John held his hand out for the pulse charge. “Gimme.”

Nate handed it over. The charge was heavier than it looked. “It’s magnetic,” Nate explained. “You just have to place it against the core and… and come back out.”

“Easy,” John said, forcing a half-smile. Nate clapped him on the shoulder and stepped back, pulling Piper with him.

Danse stood hunched in his suit. His flame-kissed face spoke of all kinds of torment. John held Danse’s eyes until his stomach started flipping in indecision. Nope. No take-backsies.

He walked past Danse, saying, “You all better fall back.”

Footsteps told of them retreating. John stared forlornly at the wash of blue energy. He could hear it humming in the chamber. A moment later, the steel door clanged shut. It was just him, the charge, and the reactor now. “This fucking sucks,” he muttered, using rad-charged ghoul strength to wrench open the containment door.

A wave of scalding radiation knocked into him. He had to turn his face away, grimacing. Placing forceful steps, he eked his way inside. It was like walking against wind. He forced himself into the blue sphere and towards the core. The energy around him shifted, the brilliant blue turning teal, then cyan, then vivid green. Blinding light burned into his essence, piercing through him. His vision blurred, senses warping as rads ate through his skin, splitting it open and spilling into his body.

A section of metal ran straight through the center of the sphere within the reactor. Knotted fingertips skipped around paneling, searching for seams as light burned through his eyelids. With rad-enhanced strength, he pried a metal plate free. Straining, John found the core’s housing by feel. The pulse charge pulled itself from his hand, adhering to the reactor core.

It was over. He was done.

John should have left the reactor, should have turned and fought to walk back out. The green sphere was pulsing now, as if to the beat of his own heart. Nothing hurt anymore. He reached a kind of equilibrium inside the vortex of energy and debated taking a seat on reactor floor, vibrating with radiation for eternity. The sphere was a tempting mistress, promising strength, immortality, and freedom, true freedom. No more thought, no more reasoning, no more fighting. That didn’t sound too bad.

The blasting brightness melted into him. The pulse beat stronger, beckoning. It flashed all around him.  

Green. Black.

Green. Black.

It slowed.

Green.

Black.

Green.

Then, nothing.


	16. One Night in Hartford

JOHN

Hartford, CT

August 27th, 2282

Tonight, they were out among people – a rarity – enjoying anonymity. The dilapidated drive-in was much like any other they’d seen. Rusted-out cars sat in rows with people using them as perches, a rifle or handgun ready just in case the noise drew unwelcome mutants or ferals. The projection booth and concession diner housed a trading hub, a few brahmin grazing under the eaves while a small group of traders sold frivolous snack and beverage items.

John and Danse found seating atop the projection booth, scooting out onto on the horizontal steel eaves among a few other filmgoers. Though the night was warm, John wore a threadbare tie over his usual ensemble, his wild hair slicked back into a neat ponytail. Danse had donned a suit jacket, the seams loosened in the shoulders to accommodate the breadth of his torso. John had insisted. Danse hadn’t said much.  

Perched with their legs dangling over the edge, they settled. Giddy, John had sparks of excitement shooting down into his fingers and toes. A little voice told him to exercise caution and pace himself. He rifled through a sack stuffed with warm beer and junk food. “Hey, I found a box of those disgusting snack cakes you love,” he said, offering a package to Danse.

Danse grunted but took the box, avoiding eye contact. His back remained stiff as ever. An odd feeling fluttered in John’s chest, contesting with his enthusiasm. Popping the top off a beer, he took a long swig, frowning around the bottle.

They’d had several fights since April, some nearly explosive, and always over the same thing. Danse had become quiet, more-so than normal, and painfully withdrawn. He was still tethered to the Brotherhood, and although he stepped away when allotted to in order to see John, there was a tense aura to their visits that left neither fulfilled. Under the strain, John had taken greater solace in chems. Jet and Med-X rode in his pockets even now. He had a sneaking suspicious that Danse knew.

The film started with a high-pitched squeal and a few thumps that broke John from his rumination. After a brief advertisement for Slocum's Joe, the story began. It was some tale about cowboys and Indians that had Danse leaning forward in rapt attention, ignoring John, who drank alone, his stomach tying itself into knots.

The evening had a casually romantic ease to it. If not for Danse’s mysterious sulk, John wound have found it refreshing to be just another pair out to enjoy a film on a summer’s night. There were other couples on the eaves or down in the cars doing normal couple-things – kissing, laughing, fucking. Watching them, ugly jealousy wormed its way through John’s core. Danse would never permit that kind of open affection. Not unless something drastic changed between them.

John started in on another beer.

A few weeks ago, fed up with the nervous dancing they’d been doing around each other, John had hit on a bold idea. Counting on his way with words and his charisma, this could be the ticket out of the pit they’d dug. He finished the beer to steel his nerves, wishing he had time to sneak away and find a bottle of confidence-boosting Day Tripper. Oh, well. Looked like he’d have to rely on his own skill tree.

The movie stopped mid-way through, cutting to black. The first reel restarted, automatically looping the first half of the show indefinitely. A few people booed, but no one was surprised. A single, functioning, intact reel was rare enough. Expecting the second reel to also work was pie in the sky, exposure and other damage rotting the film. Danse sighed, sitting straight again. “I’d like to know how it ended,” he said, rather melancholic.

“You’re just gonna have to make it up,” said John, depositing his empty bottles back in the sack. “Maybe a spaceship came down and took everybody to Mars so they could start over. What’cha think?”

Danse gave an annoyed hum.

The other movie-goers collected their items, talking and even mimicking scene from the film. John produced a bottlecap and held it up. “Flip you for topsies later?” he asked with a wink.

Danse shrugged, peeling the seams of the snack box apart. “I’m fine with either.”

“C’mon. Play the game,” John insisted. When Danse shook his head, John scooted closer and plucked the box from his hands. Tilting in, John moved to kiss him.

Danse leaned away, hand coming up to divide them. “People are staring.”

John shifted and turned his head. Yeah, a couple of people on the eaves were looking at them, whispering to one another. He cracked a smile at Danse. “Well, I mean, can’t blame ‘em,” John said, loosening his tie a bit, “what with the eye candy we’ve got going on. But so damn what?”

“You know quite well what,” said Danse, getting to his feet. He wasn’t amused.

Disparaged, John heaved a sigh and pocketed the cap. The filmgoers began to disperse – it wasn’t as if anyone would get to see the end of the movie. As they climbed down, a worried irritation began to grate on John’s patience. None of this was going according to plan. Though dashing in his jacket, Danse remained rigid as ever, immune to John’s attempts at getting him to relax. He walked next to John with his head down, hands in the pockets of his black jeans.

They stepped off the theater’s blacktop surfacing and started their way through nearby woods. Alone again, John extended a palm and griped, “Dan, put your goddamned hand in my hand.”

Confusion clouding his face, Danse stopped. Moonlight gave him dark shadows under his eyes. After a quick scan of their surroundings, he tentatively removed a hand from his pocket and clasped John’s.

As they stood there on the dirt path leading back in Hartford, naked tree branches interlaced overhead, John paused to draw courage. “Hey… I got something I need you to hear,” he began, staring at their woven hands instead of Danse’s face. “I’ve messed up a lot and done a bunch of shit I’m not proud of. But you… I’m proud of you. Proud to know you, proud that you get me.”

John tightened his grasp. He still couldn’t look up, bloatflies loose in his stomach. “I didn’t think we’d end up like this. Hell, after the first night we met, I never thought I’d see you again. But I guess that’s destiny for you.” A wistful smile played at his lips before fading. “Keeping things up with you, that’s been the best decision I ever made. You fill a part in my life I didn’t even know was missing. Somehow, I got damn lucky. And I don’t wanna do anything to fuck this up.” He cleared his throat and finally glanced at Danse. “I just… had to get that outta my system first.”

Danse’s face was stone, a concerned frown etched on it. “Are you drunk? You’re… verbose.”

“Kinda, yeah,” John answered honestly. The buzz from the beers was present, but just barely. “But I still meant all of it.”

“What are you getting at?” Danse asked, hand going a bit limp in John’s.

The combination of the beers and the bloatflies weren’t doing John any favors. The tickle in his throat might have been nerves or straight up nausea. “I’ve… well… I been thinkin’,” he stammered, palm sweating against Danse’s. “It might be time I moved to the Capital.”

Danse let go of John, letting his hands fall to his sides. His brows quirked in befuddlement. “What on earth for? Your life is in Diamond City.”

Gulping, John nodded. “Part of it, yeah,” he granted. “But, not all of it.” He took a deep breath and babbled, “I think I’ve been waiting for you. Waiting my whole life and never even knew it. You keep me from spinning into the atmosphere. You keep me here, present, focused. Dan, I want a life – a _real_ life. Day in, day out. And I want it with you. No lies. No hiding. No different places. No wondering and worrying. I want us to have friends and do things that matter, together. I want you to be proud to be with me. I want to be enough for you.”

“Why are you saying this?” Danse looked… almost frightened. His eyes rounded and he took a half-step back.

Gut growing heavy at the newfound distance between them, John begged, “Don’t go back.” His lighthearted persona came crashing down at what might be the only chance to plead his case. “Please. Don’t go back to them. The Brotherhood’s no good for you. You can do better. _We_ can do better.”

A disgusted sound tore from Danse’s throat. “John, stop. You’re being absurd.”

John’s face felt hot, his cheeks and ears on fire. This was walking a line. He knew it but had little choice. Freeing Danse from the Brotherhood was the only solution there was. They had a hold on him, a tight leash that kept him distant. As long as Danse associated with them, he’d put their desires first and throw away anything he wanted for himself. Taking a hesitant step closer, John said, “Look, I know I don’t fit into your perfectly structured life. But, hey, chief – you picked _me_ up. I am not sorry for caring about you, or for wanting more. That ain’t outta line. This is what happens when something’s real. It’s a normal progression. It’s what people do.”  

Holding hands out, half-asking for forgiveness, half-asking for an embrace, he continued, “You wanna be part of something that’s bigger than you are, and I know that. There’s another way to give you that. What about… what about you and me, building something great. Helping people in real ways. Making the difference between who we were and who we are now. Who we _will_ be. Dan, this is how we do that. And it’s not with us in different regions or puttin’ other shit first.” One hand clapped to his heart. “Be with me. Just me. Leave them for good.”

Danse held absolutely still. His chin had tipped forward so far down that his expression was hidden in shadow. But his hands… He’d clenched his fists, and as each moment passed, they trembled more and more. When he finally spoke, the words were tainted with revolution. “You beg for the one thing that you can’t ask of me. To leave. To be nothing. To sit useless by your side in a dilapidated city because you can’t grasp anything that’s actually important.” He glanced up, his eyes dark and furious. “I don’t choose you. I will _never_ choose you.” Snorting, Danse shook his head. “The testing, the pushing… is this fun for you? Why do you have the constant need to challenge me?”

“Because I want to marry you!” John practically screamed, words tumbling out, not at all the way he had intended. Too late to put them back in his mouth.

There was a pause as if Danse was too stunned to make words. “ _Why_?” he asked at last, his tone incredulous and offended.

All the air went out of John’s lungs. His arms dropped. “That’s your response?”

“How on Earth would that fix anything?” Danse elaborated. “I’d leave my job and the battlefield for what, just _you_?”

“…yeah,” John said in a soft, hurt voice. “Exactly that.”

Danse threw his shoulders back and stretched to his full stature. Starlight glinted off his eyes like lightning. “You knew what this was, and how far it could go,” his deep voice rumbled. His fury grew to a terrible height. “I can’t do this anymore – juggle your needs and the needs of an entire militia. I put myself on the backburner. I’ve lied on record for you. I have turned down promotions _for you_. I’ve had the chance to hop on a ship that will take me anywhere, bring Brotherhood influence anywhere, and I have been negating this decision in order to maintain leaves _for you_. And I will not become a full-time faggot _for you_!”

The world held its breath; the wind didn’t even move. John and Danse stood staring, John’s mouth slowly falling open. The heat in his face surged. “Still?” he barked. “That’s _still_ your fuckin’ hang up?” The Brotherhood’s intolerance for all things imperfect was exactly the reason to pry Danse away from them. “If they knew about us – about you – they wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. They’d leave you to die on some mission and say it was an accident. And you wanna toss the rest of your life away for them? The answer here is pretty damn simple. You go. You walk. And fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em to straight to Hell.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” Danse argued. “The Brotherhood is my family. No matter what they’d think of me, I have to take care of them. It’s my duty.”

“ _We_ could be a family. You and me. We could start over. Do anything we want without giving two shits about what anyone thinks.” A dizzy sensation took John off-kilter. He was frantic now, playing with fire, trying to blast holes in the wall Danse had built around himself. “If our lives weren’t leading up to this, why’d we do any of it at all? I can take their place. I can be whoever you need me to be.”

Danse’s stiff posture deflated. For an instant, John was elated. He’d won. Then Danse spoke.

“John, I… I can’t do the same for you. I just can’t.” He took slow, shallow breaths through his nose. “I didn’t prepare for this outcome, and I didn’t… I didn’t think this would last as long as it has. It was… discourteous of me to mislead you. I apologize.”

Nausea swirled in John’s gut as he raged, “Apologize? Fuck, Dan! I don’t want you to apologize. I want things to be good between us. I want _you_.”

“And, again, I apologize, but I what I want no longer includes you.”

It was like Danse had smacked him in the face. “That’s bullshit,” John spat.

“I’m sorry. But you’ve asked me to choose. And I have.” Danse glanced off at nothing, mouth set. “Don’t try to reach me.”

All residual anger crumbled into frenzied fear. John had played this all wrong. He felt slightly sick. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Danse. Certainly not the confrontation that had occurred. “Dan. Don’t do this.” John’s breaths became sharp gasps. “I love you.”

“Then that’s unfortunate.” Danse turned and paused, leaving his back to John. He glanced towards the ruins of Hartford, where _Invictus_ sat out of sight. “Can you get home all right?”

That final bit of consideration landed like a final physical blow. John lifted his hands in a wide, listless shrug. “Nothing’s all right,” he muttered. “But I get by anyway.”

Danse walked away, disappearing beyond he trees.

And it was over.

Hot tears sprang into John’s eyes. They came pouring out before he could stop them. John spun to face the opposite direction. Though the thought of a future together had been little more than fantasy, the death of a dream still ached like the real thing. A numbness crept through his limbs and he plopped right down on the path, alone in the dark. He shoved his hands into his pockets, freeing every chem he had, dumping them out onto the dirt. With a shaking hand, he rolled the sleeve up on one arm.  

Slipping fingers through the knot, he tugged his tie loose, yanking it from his neck. Using his teeth, and crying so hard his diaphragm hurt, he tied it off above the elbow. It took three Med-X syringes before he could calm down enough to stand. He wobbled and started off in the general direction of Massachusetts.

Although he desperately wanted to – his body yearned to act out the motion – he never glanced back.


	17. Light Show

PIPER

The Institute

August 17th, 2288

Piper had seen a lot of shocking and astonishing things in her time. Watching Goodneighbor’s former mayor calmly walk into the core of nuclear reactor was in her top five. Top three, even.

Safe behind the observation window, she, Blue and Danse watched the otherworldly blue light of the core shift to angry flashes of green. Blue grabbed her shoulder, easing her back front the glass. Danse had his nose practically against it, shallow breaths fogging the plane.

After nearly a full minute, the light show slowed, dimming significantly. A dull green glow pulsed within, spilling out of the core’s narrow window. For a long moment, nothing happened. Piper glanced at Nate, jerking her chin towards the long hall leading them back, asking to make haste out of there. Blue rolled his lips together, but before he could answer Danse shouted, “Good Lord! John!” Piper and Blue whipped their heads towards the reactor.

The door to the core had opened. A tumble of green fell out of it and landed on the metal platform. What used to be John McDonough, or John Hancock, or whathaveyou, was emitting shades of lime and chartreuse. A glowing one.

Piper’s stomach sank and she clutched the sledgehammer tighter. Oh, God. They’d have to leave it here, blow it up along with the rest of the Institute. Hancock, the man with two lives, would smolder underground, buried beneath rubble and earth. He’d seemed destined for a grander finale. He’d given her his life story, told her to publish it after the end, but this was a sad note to end on.

The ghoul rolled onto its back and gave a solid kick at the reactor door, slamming it shut. It propped itself up on its hands, lifted its head and proudly stated in a hoarse voice that echoed through the chamber, “Hey. Well, that was a rush.” It swayed before collapsing onto the walkway.

John. It was still John.

Relief soared within Piper. This wasn’t his end, and her eulogy would have to wait.

Before Piper could form words, Danse was tearing the observation door open. “Get back!” he yelled over his shoulder. A hand grabbing her coat and hauled her back, away from the reactor’s residual radiation. She and Blue ran out the rear of the observation room and out into the concrete hallway, halting outside to wait. Piper pulled a bottle of Rad-X out and downed a few precautionary tablets. She tossed the bottle to Blue, who did the same and then tossed it back. She repocketed the bottle as she caught her breath.

A series of thundering footfalls announced Danse’s return moments later. He had John cradled in his metal arms, holding him as delicately as an egg. John hovered near unconsciousness, eyes fluttering, nestling his face into Danse’s neck. The green glow undulating up and down his body shimmered in waves. His veins were lit from within and shafts of emerald light spilled from the fissures in his face.

Even out in the concrete tunnel, Piper heard the Geiger counters in both Danse’s suit and Nate’s Pip-Boy clicking. “What’s causing that?” she asked in alarm. “Is it the reactor? Is it John? Is he causing that?”

Danse and Blue traded a quick, worried glance. Neither answered.

Blinding white light filled the tunnel and the others dissolved before her eyes.

A rush of weightless discombobulation teased Piper’s senses. For a few seconds, she was lost. Caught in a rush of vertigo, she wasn’t sure what had happened, or if she was even still alive.

She gave a half-scream as she landed on something very solid and very real. Both her military men slammed down beside her, John’s limbs dangling in Danse’s arms. Gasping, Piper found they were on the floor of a cramped chamber painted in soft, buttercup yellow and eggshell. Gleaming metal archways and pristine terminals lined the tight walls. An opening led out into another, larger room.

Through the gap, she saw Sturges standing behind a workstation. “Gotcha!” he said, pumping a fist in the air. Beside him, Curie gave a crisp nod, relief evident on her face. Both gave a brief jolt when they saw John’s state.

Blue was the first to find his feet and rush out. “Are we good to relay up top? I’ve had about enough of this place.”

“Uh, yeah, well… yes and no,” Sturges hemmed, pushing keys on a terminal. “Relays are up, sure, but bandwidth is blocked. That’s why the Minute Men never made it. Signals out, but no signals in.”

“What does that mean?” asked Piper, hauling herself out of the transporter. She caught a glance at MacCready on his back by Curie’s feet. To say he looked like shit was a high compliment. Blood was smeared all over his clothing and his skin was paper-white. He didn’t even seem alive.

“Means we can go,” said Sturges, “but the fusion pulse charge can’t be activated.”

“Absolutely unacceptable,” Danse snarled. He stayed were he was with John in his arms, looking ready to murder. “The cost of placing it was already too high. Find another solution.”

“Well, I mean, it _can_ , but…” Sturges broke off, a tormented expression twisting his face. “It’s gotta be done from here. Somebody has to push the button from inside the Institute.”

They all looked at each other in stunned horror. “Somebody has to stay behind?” Piper asked, a lump forming in her throat. “Is that what you’re saying?”

His jaw tight, Sturges confirmed, “Yeah.”

They wasted a few more seconds in silence. “Okay,” Blue said quietly. “This is my mess. I’ll do it.”

“How is any of this your fault?” Piper bit. “You’ve been frozen for centuries –”

“You don’t understand,” started Nate, shaking his head. “The director –”

“Fix this,” Danse ordered Sturges.

Sturges sighed and raked fingers through his hair. “Would if I could, man. Some things can’t be fixed.”

“Reroute power –” Danse suggested.

“Ain’t nothing left to route,” Sturges cut him off.

Danse bristled. “You incompetent –”

“– I’m responsible for what this place became,” Blue continued, pleading with Piper and standing before her. “I should have done better, tried harder –”

“You’re a stupid fool, Nathaniel Sterling,” Piper said, talking over him. “There’s nothing –”

“All of you, stop fighting!” Curie yelled. The act of her raising her voice made all the rest of them fall silent. Teardrops slipped down her face. She took a stabilizing breath and said, “I will do this.”

Piper’s face slacked. “Oh, Curie. No.”

She nodded to Piper, wiping her face. “Oui. This is acceptable.” She turned to Blue, blinking away tears. “Monsieur Nate, thank you. I was alive, truly, for a short while. I have experienced a lifetime within mere months. But this body is not mine, and it is time I surrender it. I can do this. For a better, most beautiful future.” Glancing at the rest of them, she added, “For my family.”

“Curie,” Blue whispered, “we need you.”

She shook her head. “I believe that I am quite done.” She handed her bag over to Sturges. “You will make this world better. I know this.”

Blue gulped. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Certainement,” Curie said, squaring her narrow shoulders.

Head down, Blue strode to Danse and popped a container in the armor open. He retrieved a square metal box and came back. Curie held out her tiny hands. He placed the detonator in them. “Curie –” he began.

“I do know,” she said. She gave a swallow and a light smile came into being. She beamed at them. “Live very full, very happy lives.” Her gaze fell to one side, “MacCready…”

Blue rushed to get the sniper off the floor, easily lifting him. He and Piper joined Danse, crowding into the transporter. After patting Curie on the arm, Sturges asked, “Ready kids?”

“Yes, please,” said Blue, his body all rigid muscle and veiled distress. “Curie wait until the transport clears, then press it.”

She gave a simple nod. Her fingers were ghost-white around the detonator. Piper’s eyes stung with tears, already grieving, guilty that she couldn’t bring herself to make the same sacrifice. She hugged the head of the hammer to her chest, something solid she that could grip hard.

“Alrighty,” said Sturges, punching a few final commands into the terminal. “Here… we… go.” He leapt over the console and ran into the transporter as it energized. A hum built until it was nearly deafening, the walls glowing white.

Suddenly, sunlight. The air was warm and fresh.

Piper vaguely knew where they were – atop one of the skyscrapers downtown. A gentle breeze tossed loose hair into her face, strands sticking to her tears. The entire Commonwealth spread out before her in all directions, the gentle dawn light making the world look almost innocent.

A distant, low rumble grew into a thunderclap. Flame and debris mushroomed out from below the old CIT ruins. A cloud of dust and fire towered over the river, blotting out the morning sun and the entirely of Cambridge. The blast rippled across the river and slapped up against the Fens. In the distance, the Diamond City light towers shook, wobbling on their bases. The forces of the explosion moved outwards, encroaching on their vicinity. Hot air burst over them in a wave. Piper ducked and shielded her face with an arm. The building they were on quivered alarmingly.

When Piper looked up again, the sky was a solid gray mass. Ash clouds choking the air, coating them and making them cough. A molten red glow permeated ground zero, an open wound in the center of their world. Curie was down there. Deacon was down there.

Blue wilted, pounding fists on the rooftop, keening one long, tortured scream. Piper dropped the sledgehammer and hugged him tight as his tears fell heavy and fast, leaving clean trails on his soot-covered face. 

At their side, MacCready drowsily woke as the building stopped moving. “D… di’ we win?” he slurred, eyes still closed. Flakes of ash were caught up in his eyelashes.

Piper took note of their group. In her arms, Blue was inconsolable, rocking back and forth. Danse still held a glowing John, neck craned so that their foreheads brushed. His suit’s Geiger counter crackled, angered by proximity to John’s body. Sturges was leaning over the skyscraper’s railing, watching the ash cloud settle as it blanketed the region.

“Yeah, we won,” said the storyteller, laying her check on Blue’s heaving shoulder. Her own tears started up again, soaking through Blue’s jumpsuit. “Saved the day. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”

MacCready nodded and drifted out again, breath lapsing into an even rhythm.

Blue’s body was warm under Piper’s cheek, and she took time to simply feel _alive_. She hugged him tighter.

“Ya know,” said Sturges, his back to the others, looking out over the destruction, “we just set off a bomb in the center of town. That might have some repercussions.”

“The world has seen worse,” Danse muttered. “And it’s dealt with the fallout. We’ll rebuild.”

Piper supposed that was part of the cycle, of being human – destroying and remaking a whole new world to destroy again. It would be a hell of a thing to watch happen. And to chronicle. What did MacCready’s injury mean for Goodneighbor? What happened to the Minutemen? Curie and Deacon – she had to tell their stories in the best way she could. She had to get out there, to find answers, to find the Institute’s survivors and hear their stories.

She rubbed at Blue’s back and asked, “So… anyone got a bright idea on how to get down from here?”


	18. Say Something

JOHN

Sanctuary Hills, MA

August 17th, 2288

Something brushed over John’s cheek. The motion kept repeating in slow, tender movements. He struggled to open his eyes, lids heavy and sluggish to respond. For his efforts, he was greeted with a relieved smile from Danse, who kept rubbing John’s face with a thumb. A pretty, green light washed over Danse’s own face in pulses.

“…hey,” John croaked.

“…hey,” Danse answered, his soft gaze steady and warm. He lay next to John with his head propped up by an elbow, under-eyes puffy as if he’d been sleeping.

John’s body ached like he’d been on the losing side of a fight. His limbs were stiff, and each movement needed effort behind it. His gaze roamed past Danse. He was in their bed at their house at Sanctuary. Late afternoon sunshine lit the flag curtain from behind. The white stars and stripes seemed exceptionally bright. He groaned and squeezed his eye closed again. “What happened?”

“The Institute is destroyed,” said Danse, pride evident in his voice. “You did well. As did we all.”

Trying to piece his memory back together, John only recalled fractions. The rush through the tunnels. Finding Danse. Fighting. That burning green light. And his friends. He remembered the friends that had joined the battle. And he remembered MacCready.

He sat up so fast that the room spun. “What happened to Mac? Did he make it? Is he here?”

Danse’s strong hands forced him to lay back down. “He’s alive, yes. When we came up top, we were close to Goodneighbor. He’s sedated at the clinic under Fahrenheit’s eye.”

Thank goodness for MacCready’s quick establishment of medical care in Goodneighbor, pulling some ghoul doctor that had been chilling out in the southern wilderness of the Commonwealth. John felt stupid for overlooking that element. He’d overlooked a lot while mayor. More proof that Mac had been a good choice as successor. 

That shimmering jade light waltzed along Danse’s features. He stared at John, a slight frown pulling at his lips. “Your eyes are green,” he stated. “They… shine like beacons.”

The glow. John jerked his hands up into his field of vision. His skin was a dull shade of moss, but through the cracks where flesh splintered ethereal green radiance wove underneath like rivers of light tracing his veins. Each beat of his heart made the glow pulse. He’d seen a lot of shit while high but nothing like this. “You seeing this, too?”

“Yes. I see it,” Danse confirmed.

So, this was real. He glowed. And… seemed to still have his mind intact. John gave a meek laugh, turning his hands over to study the luminescence. “Guess you’ll never need a headlamp again with me around, huh?”

Danse took his hand, John’s fingers throbbing light. “I don’t ever intend on leaving you behind.” He squeezed the hand, and John squeezed back. Both closed their eyes and lay quietly for a time, dozing in and out.

When they fully woke, it was dusk and time for all of Sanctuary to gather by the giant tree in the cul-de-sac. Along with Mama Murphy and the Longs, the entirety of the Minutemen were present, every last one of them, over thirty strong, still armed for the fight they never reached. A somber atmosphere hung over the development like a raincloud, making people huddle together and share quiet conversation. Despite a victory over the Institute, it had come at a price, taking lives and wrecking an entire section of the city. Word was that the majority of Cambridge was now irradiated, and that the Hangman’s Alley settlement was being turned into a ghoul-only refuge. All told, the destruction could have been much worse, the blast mainly taking out a few raider nests. If there was a drifter death toll, numbers had yet to come in.

Not wanting to scare anyone with his new visage, John hung back from the rest in the shelter of their carport. Danse wore his general’s uniform for the first time, a heavy blue overcoat adorned with stars at the collar over combat armor, and a wide, colonial hat. He had an arm around John’s chest, keeping them back-to-front and close. That didn’t feel half-bad. If it took another nuclear bomb going off for Danse finally be comfortable with showing affection, hell, that sure was something.

While they hung back, a steady procession approached grand oak. One by one, each person lit candles and placed them at the base of the towering, barren tree or strung bottles gleaming with yellowish nuclear material among its branches. A wide plank was affixed to the trunk, and from it dangled a tattered fedora and a broken laser musket. On one side, a few milk bottles were laced together in a cluster. Nate, whose dark circles surpassed Danse’s, stepped forward to hang a pair of sunglasses on a nail. At his side, Piper draped a wreath of bramble in the shape of a heart on the board.

Turning to face the assemblage, Nate turned an item over in his hand, something gold. All eyes on him, his Adam’s Apple bobbed as he tried to speak, choking on the first few words over and over. Piper put her hand on his back, and Danse dropped his hold on John to join Nate.

“Thank you all for coming,” said Danse, coming to Nate’s rescue and addressing the crowd. “Many of you don’t know my face, but I’m told you know of me. My name is Daniel Danse, and I’ve untaken the role of general.” He stood tall, his face stern but with empathetic eyes. “Let me make one thing clear – this body might be synth, but my heart and mind belong to the Commonwealth. I know that you came for a fight, ready and able, and that many of you are disappointed to have missed it. As we venture into this new future together, that kind of dedication will be both necessary and welcomed. But for now, let us remember those that gave their lives for our freedom.”

All of Sanctuary shared a long pause of silent respect and reflection.

Faint, echoing tremors ran through John’s body. The itch for Jet was a distracting annoyance. _Back on the wagon_ , he supposed. But it seemed like they’d all made sacrifices of some kind. Curie had told Sturges of Deacon’s fate and wasn’t that a fucking waste. There was nothing worse than a senseless end. Memories of Valentine came to mind. Uneasy guilt made John shrink a little, pressing his back against Danse for support. If he’d had a pack of cigarettes on him, he would have torn into it.

“Thanks, Danse,” Nate uttered, regaining his composure. Danse nodded and stood at attention, hands behind his back. As Piper withdrew her hand, Nate cleared his throat and began anew. “I’ve… lost a lot of people since arriving here. A lot of good people. A lot of friends. Curie… she was too good for this world, and in it for far too short a time. She was… proof that people don’t have to be born to be virtuous, that we all have that ability no matter where we come from.”

He took a shaky breath before continuing. “Deacon was unpredictable. And difficult. And stubborn. What happened to him wasn’t fair. But the whole world isn’t fair, and he knew that. He knew it and he never let it stop him. When he laughed, he made sure the whole world could hear him. I guess… well, I guess you can either pass through life or you can make a dent in it. And he did a lot of damage.”

Turning his back to everyone, Nate addressing the memorial. “Ah, Deac. You’d been around since almost the beginning. You were one of the first. Hell, you’re the one who found _me_. Preston. Nick. Everybody else who comes after, well, they’re just going to try and take your place.  And they won’t be able to. No one’s ever going to forget you. And I will miss you all forever.”

Nate hesitated, then hung a final item from the plank.

It was a gold rattle.

Sanctuary emptied pretty quickly as darkness fell. Some of the Minutemen stayed to help harvest in the morning and assist in general maintenance, but most were happy to go home and tell of the new world they were headed towards. Piper escorted Nate home. He was in good hands. The memorial tree glimmered with the light of a hundred candles and glowing rad-bottles, bringing an ethereal presence to Sanctuary as tree limbs were lit from below, making the entire oak glow soft ocher in the night. When everyone had gone, John and Danse added two final candles.

They retreated to the shabby roof of their house and sat drinking in lawn chairs as night deepened. It was rarer now for Danse to imbibe, and he took slow, infrequent sips from a bottle of beer.

Even after a beer, John still found himself jittery. “You mind?” he asked, brandishing an inhaler of Jet. Danse shook his head without so much as a frown.

John took the most shameful hit of Jet in his life. He held it in his lungs until they burned, and he coughed out the fumes. “Fuck,” he rasped. “I was so close, ya know? So damned close to not needing this.”

“Wasn’t your fault. You did what you could, and I don’t blame you.”

Giving a sharp laugh, John said, “Hey, look – there’s a guy in a coat tellin’ me it’s cool to do chems. Who are we?”

Danse removed his tricorn and set it in his lap, running a hand over crisp edges of leather. “I don’t really think it suits me. The style, not the symbolism.” He took a sip from his bottle.

“To each their own. I always could appreciate a good hat.” Sated for now, John pocketed the rest of the Jet and popped the top on another beer.

Danse’s chair squeaked as he set the hat aside and looked out over Sanctuary. “All of the Minutemen were prepared to siege the Institute. They knew that I’m the general and that I’m a synth, and they organized anyway. I… never expected that.” 

John snorted and sank back in his chair. “People can surprise you sometimes, and in good ways. They’re probably pissed they missed the whole thing. Can’t blame ‘em. I barely remember it.” The beer was warm, as was the night, and John sat the bottle down to shrug out of his leather jacket. In only a white tank and pants, the glow from within his skin was honest and on display.

Lost in thought, Danse scratched nails over the beer label, picking at it. “It appears the Commonwealth is about to enter a new era of peace.”

“Looks like.”

“It’s thanks to you.”

John shrugged. “Only part of it.” Danse’s praise made this feel oddly similar to the night the synths had been taken away.

“The constant paranoia of living in the Institute’s shadow has vanished. _Will_ vanish. Perhaps one day… I, and others like me, can be free again. The kidnapping, the fear, and the threat of their technology running amok… it’s all over.”

“I hate when you say _amok_ ,” John groaned.

“You’ve made history.”

A thoughtful thumb ran over the mouth of John’s botte before he countered, “We all did. ‘Specially the ones that didn’t make it.”

They clinked bottles in somber agreement and drank to lost friends.

“In Hartford,” Danse began, shifting in his seat, “I regret that I was unable to give you want you needed from me. Everything became so difficult. The timing… it just wasn’t right.”

John sighed. He was over having to relive this memory. “I know that now. I get it. Really.” He swigged the last of his beer from the bottle and got up. Leaning over an awning, he dropped the bottle from the rooftop. It landed with a satisfying crash in the bin below.

When he turned back, Danse was on one knee in front of him. “I believe that I’m ready now,” said Danse.

Danse could have been kneeling for any one of a hundred different reasons. A thousand even. It took John a few seconds to understand what was happening. He recalled his own botched proposal too well. “What, are you fuckin’ out of your mind?” he belted.

“Am I doing this incorrectly?” Danse looked flustered, earnest eyes going wide.  

“ _This_? You want _this_? Now?” John shouted, hands waving up and down his glowing body.

“I want you.” Danse took John by the hand and pulled until John fell to a knee as well. “John…” he started slowly. “I don’t believe that I ever thanked you.”

“For what?” John was thoroughly confused.

“For standing by me throughout my worst. For bringing out my best. I trust you. I love you.” He brushed a thumb over the back of John’s hand as his eyes lost focus in thought. “I often wondered if the Institute built me blank for a reason. If I didn’t know what love and family meant, I wouldn’t miss them in my life – I wouldn’t need them. The Institute gave me the Brotherhood and purpose, and I didn’t know there was more to living… until you.”

His gaze locked with John’s. “For so long, my life was all about my deeds and my legacy. John… I want my legacy to be entwined with yours. And I don’t know if this is even an option for me anymore, but…” Danse paused, his eyes glittering, widened by a slight trace of fear. “Could you bring yourself to marry me? I want to say the words to you. To be marked as _yours_. To be unafraid. No worrying. No misunderstandings or lost moments. No more regret. I want you by my side for the rest of our lives. Would… would you be willing to make that promise to me?”

Such a swell of emotion was rare for Danse and John forgot to respond. Solid, steady Danse was giving him everything that he had wanted and, feeling like a clubbed radrabbit, he couldn’t make a sound.

“John?” Danse urged, fishing for an answer. “Please… say something.”

“Rads and all?” John managed in a small, uncertain voice.

Danse choked on a laugh. “Rads and all,” he agreed.

“Then, yeah.” John nodded. He pressed his forehead to Danse’s and kept nodding. “Yeah.”

Their mouths connected in a sloppy manner, lacking Danse’s usual precision. But they laughed through the drunken kiss, making it that much sweeter.

They kneeled on the roof of their home, equals. John didn’t know how long he had left, but no one really did. Each day was a gift and all anyone could do was live the best they could in any single moment. And he knew, with no doubt, that they would weather the storm of life together and be stronger for it.

Every wrong turn and mistake it took to get here was worth it, and if that’s what it took, John didn’t regret a damn thing.


End file.
